


Through the Dark I'll reach to you

by CryInDollHouse



Category: Dark Souls (Video Games)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Ciaran sorry dear but they're gay, Friends to Lovers, I could use some help with gramma, Kinda, M/M, Ornstein is a good friend, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sorry Not Sorry, What Was I Thinking?, this is au, what others tags do i use?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2019-09-01 20:03:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 47,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16771936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CryInDollHouse/pseuds/CryInDollHouse
Summary: I am afraid of my own self. I am afraid, that I'll get consumed again. Can't you hear me screaming out your name? Can't you see me reaching for you?Or in this world, Ornstein didn't allow Artorias to die. A world, where things turned better. Where there is at least one happy ending.





	1. Hold on

**Author's Note:**

> This fandom seems to bring nothing but pain so i decided to give fandom a story with a happy ending.  
> For reference: Gwyn have already went to the Kiln of the First Flame and Gwynevere have left Anor Londo. It's actually stated in the game but I decided to state it so you know.

It’s a late hour - the sun has already started to set, painting the sky in soft flaming colors. Deep orange, soft yellow and the prominent blue make up the painting. In other circumstances, Ornstein would stay just to watch how the sun would drown behind the horizon. Right now there was only one thing on his mind, and that thing made him leave Anor Londo within the hour, made him spur his horse with no mercy for almost two hours now.

_ Artorias is in trouble. _

When one of his servants came rushing to him with a letter in their hands, he thought it was either another report or new instructions from The Dark Sun, but when he saw a seal with a hornet an uneasy feeling formed inside his chest. Ciaran rarely sent any letters and if she ever did so, it meant that something  _ bad is either about to happen or it already happened _ and she needed help. The letter was short:

_ "Situation in Oolacile is getting out of hand. Artorias has gone to the Chasm of the Abyss and still has not returned. I am afraid of the worst. Come as soon as possible." _

And so he left in a hurry, praying to all the Gods he knew that he would make it in time if only he could prevent something irreversible _. _

He saw before what the Abyss could do to any living being: it corrupted everything it touched, turned once reasonable and rational beings into uncontrollable monsters who destroyed everything around them. He saw those empty, glass like eyes that no longer held any warmth or life in them. He heard the screams of the unlucky ones that were filled with agony and pain, heard their prayers and pleas. And Artorias went right into its heart, determined to stop the spread, to find the cause, and kill it at the root. _ An act of bravery _ , someone said.  _ Foolishness, _ Ornstein thinks.

Only after about five hours does he notice that his horse has slowed down, and no matter how hard he spurs, his horse won’t move any faster, only annoyingly snorts at him. 

-It will not do any good.- he realizes as he lets it slow down. His way to Oolacile will still take about half a day and overworking his horse won't shorten that time. He sighs sharply, loosening his grip on the reins. The horse then immediately changes its amble from a gallop to a complete trot. Ornstein lets his fingers travel through the black mane of the animal while he watches the sun set. He thinks if he should stay somewhere and wait until morning or continue on his way and arrive at Oolacile somewhere near afternoon. But he declines the idea of stopping almost immediately and decides to move on. He would not be able to sleep anyway, not with his mind overthinking things to the point that his head feels like it’s going to explode. Especially now that Artorias is in trouble,  _ for the Flame's sake, and Sif's too _ , he would only be wasting time. And his horse is capable of continuing on so there's no reason for him to stay overnight.

Or perhaps he was...

No. He must focus.

So he spurs his horse once again.

He can't help but feel relieved once he sees Oolacile in the distance. Old houses and a small castle nestled somewhere in the middle of an ancient forest that they believed was sacred. He has been in Oolacile only once for the coronation of princess Dusk. He didn't stay for longer than two days - Gwyn needed someone to just be there and to see said Princess. He doesn't remember much of it; that time passed him by like a blur. Guests, servants, a lot of smells and loud chattering - the Lion Knight was never found of such events. Oh, how he wished to just leave back then.

" _ Not the time for nostalgia," _ he thinks, stopping his previous thoughts.  _ "I need to find Ciaran first, see what she will tell me." _

The closer he gets to the Township the more he feels a strange heavy atmosphere around Oolacile. He can almost hear his horse’s heart beating in the dead silence. He can't hear birds, leaves rustling, or even the howling of the wind for that matter. The Knight frowns beneath his helmet as he slides off the horse with a soft _ thud _ . The Lion stretches his back, legs, and arms. He spent almost a day and a half in a saddle, stopping only two times for no more than an hour so his horse could eat a little. If he had taken a regular horse then his travel would surely have taken more than two days - time which he did not have. So he took Mountain, a specific breed raised to travel faster, further, and for longer periods of time than on any other breed. The breed didn't need much food or water while traveling, however, once reaching their destination, it could eat and drink a week’s supply of food and water in one go.

He examines the gates in front of him. Some of the rods are heavily damaged, some of them are missing, and, most importantly, the gates are open - which is never a good thing. If gates, or doors for that matter, where left opened it meant that people ran away in a hurry, they were  _ escaping _ in desperation to just get out  _ alive _ . He looks over at the high walls of the Township only to find them damaged too, with holes in them and that strange black and blue goo... The Knight shakes his head as he takes Mountain by the reins and leads him into the Depths of Oolacile.

The Township is dead silent, only the clanking of his boots and heavy hooves echoing through the empty place. The whole town looks like it has been abandoned for years if not centuries. Half destroyed houses, breaches in the ground, and even more of this strange black slime all over the streets, walls, and roofs of half demolished and buried buildings, left behind carriages with someone’s belongings. As they move deeper into the town, he notices that Mountain starts to sharply pull his head back, almost as if telling Ornstein to head back.

-Come on, we need to go!

The Lion Knight pulls the reins towards him once again, trying to make the horse move but it only snorts loudly at him, refusing to go further. The Knight sharply exhales as he drops the reins and walks closer to the horse only to take his spear.

-Farewell then. I'm not wasting my time on you.

With that, he adjusts his grip and heads towards the castle. There he hopes to find Ciaran.

As he walks along what he assumes is the main road, at a medium distance ahead he spots strange creatures with oversized arms, webbed fingers and toes, pale skin, and filthy - probably mutated - heads with,  _ ugh, are those their eyes?! _ The Knight snorts as he brings his spear back, leans forward, and then dashes right into the middle of the crowd with a wide swing. Creatures roar in pain and rage as two of them jump onto Ornstein with their hands prepared to tear. With one swift move, he pierces one of them and then throws it into the other one, sending both of them flying. Out of the corner of his eye he notices how another puts its hands, clenched into a fist, above its head. He jumps to the creatures left, watching how it slams its fist into the ground with such force that the ground under it cracks. Not wasting any time, he swings again and just in time - one of the creatures managed to sneak behind him and already charged its attack but Ornstein’s swing manages to throw it off balance and leave a nasty gash across its chest. Ornstein immediately turns to the creature as it laughs and puts his spear right through its organs. The thing huskily screams and then goes limp. The Dragonslayer then swings again, turning one hundred and eighty degrees. The creature is grasping its wounds, its hands are covered in dark red blood and  _ is there black in it? _

It falls to its knees looking at its hands that are covered in blood, laughs again, and then completely falls to the ground. The pool of blood is slowly growing underneath it while Ornstein takes a look around himself. Perhaps these are the creatures from the Abyss. But Artorias has never spoken of them before. He knew about the Darkwraiths, about ghosts and  _ other, _ no less disturbing, creatures, but these? With force enough to shatter a rock? Who laughed at their own blood? This certainly was something new.

He meets several groups of these things on his way to the castle but they are no trouble for him: he moves quick, aims for their heads and chest and when needed uses wide swings to get himself some space. The castle is in better state and he doesn't notice any black slime near it. When he gets closer he notices something reflecting the morning sun and when he looks more closely he understands what. A magic barrier is formed around the castle - weak and trembling, but it is there. So this place is not completely abandoned and some of the citizens are still here. Ciaran must be there, he thinks as he crosses the barrier. It goes through him leaving a light feeling of warmth. Strange thing it was, the sorcery of Oolacile.

When he reaches the gates of the castle the smaller door opens and he sees a familiar  porcelain , mask looking at him.

-It's good thou camest so soon. Come inside. We have much to discuss.

And with that, she disappears behind the metal door, and Ornstein walks inside only a few seconds later.

He follows her silently as she leads him through empty corridors. The only thing he hears are his own breaths and the clacking of his boots, Ciaran’s footsteps being silent. No surprise - she is an assassin, after all. She's _ supposed _ to be silent.

Ornstein couldn't tell if he liked her or not; they never talked much, and when they did, they discussed mostly their work. But he respects her - smart and observant, keeping her tongue behind her teeth, with steady hands that delivered fatal blows. She never spoke much about herself, always stayed in the shadows. Surely, there was someone who she opened herself to but that someone was somewhere in the Chasm of the Abyss and needed their help.

Soon, they walk into a hall. The Lion Knight sees around fifty people, most of them injured. There are makeshift beds near the huge fireplace made out of hay and sheets or fur and about ten heavily injured humans are laying on them. Someone is cooking something over a fire, others, healers he assumes, sing their songs to the injured ones in hopes of making them feel better. He spots a few families and a lonely mother with her child, who says to her little girl that  _ everything is going to be okay sweetheart, those monsters are not going to take you, we are safe here. _

They do not stop there for long. Ciaran continues to walk and soon Ornstein follows close behind her.

-Are these the only survivors?- he finally asks the assassin.

-I am afraid so. Most of the humans have run away from here. The ones who didn't have turned into monsters that I'm sure thou hast already encountered.- Ciaran simply answers, not even bothering to look at her Captain.

-What about the Royalty?

He can't see, but he can clearly imagine the tension written all over her face for he notices how she tensed at his question. It is barely visible but Ornstein has been taught to see even the slightest of changes in the posture of others. She remains silent - almost as if were she to speak something bad might happen. Ornstein waits for another minute, then two, then a few more. When there's no answer he asks her again.

-Ciaran, answer my question.  _ That is an order _ .

The smaller woman immediately turns on her heels to face him, her voice sharp. -I am not one of thy knights. Thou can’t order me.

-If thou hast forgotten then I shall remind thee that I am thy Captain. -His voice is calm yet powerful. Whatever it is that is wrong with the Royalty here must have played its role in what caused this...situation.

-Forgive me. I just... I’m worried about Artorias. He left a week ago and still has not returned and I...

In her voice there is worry and tiredness and she already starts to stammer so Ornstein lowers himself and puts his hand on the woman’s shoulder, interrupting her.

-He is a strong and skilled warrior, Ciaran, you know that better than anyone else. And he is not alone in there.

Of course,  _ she knows _ .  _ He _ knows it. And both of them are completely aware that no matter how skilled you can be, how many hits your shield or armor can take, you can be poisoned, choke on food, an assassin can cut your throat open while you’re sleeping, or you can get sick and die. But that doesn't matter. What matters now is that even Gods do not last forever, but maybe they can steal him a few decades.

She nods a few times to acknowledge his words, and with that the Lion straightens himself up. They all had souls and hearts that could feel fear, worry, sadness, and anger. But being the best of the best, the ones to inspire fear and respect, they hid them deep within, putting their helmet and mask on to hide their faces. Artorias always said that they were much alike, him and Ciaran.  _ But, you know, with time and pressure the mask can start to crack. Maybe sometimes you should just release all of those emotions. _

Soon they are walking through the small  _ (at least for Ornstein) _ wooden door that leads them to the inner garden. There are tall trees and glowing flowers - which the Lion had seen in the Darkroot Garden before. The sun's light is dimmed by the tree tops and it's  _ so easy _ to breathe here, it’s almost as if he wore no helmet.

They follow a small path paved with stone going into the depths of the Garden. Soon Ciaran leads the Lion to a meadow with strange stone buildings and something akin to steps and  _ a huge mushroom with eyes. _

- _ Oh, _ I see that your friend has already arrived?

No, not just a huge mushroom with eyes, but  _ a huge talking mushroom with eyes. _

-Elizabeth, this is Ornstein. - Ciaran moves to the side a little to grant Elizabeth a better view of the Knight Captain.

-Ah, no need to introduce us to one another. We have already met.

So when he said _ passed like a blur _ he really meant it.

-Then no need to waste any more time. Please, tell me everything thou hast told Artorias. - He finally manages to say. 

The mushroom sighs, Ornstein wonders if she even needs to breathe, and then she speaks.-Well, it is actually our fault that all of this happened. We never should have disturbed the tomb of The Primeval Man. But that...  _ Serpent... _ I don't know what it told the others but they were obsessed with the idea to get to it. The princess tried to stop them, to talk some sense into the others but they did not want to listen. And when they reached it... Something went terribly wrong and then the Abyss came. Then the first monsters started to appear along with the humanities. We thought we could handle it, that we could find a way to fix what was done. But with each day it only got worse. Dusk erected the barrier around the Township, but she is not strong enough to maintain such a large barrier, and then the  _ sorcerers _ showed up. She couldn't keep it up forever, so we asked for Sir Artorias's help and he did come, and with his help, things started to get better. Until... Until The Primeval Man had stolen her away.

For all that Ornstein had remained silent.  _ The Tomb of The Primeval Man, the monsters, humanity, and the Princess's abduction. _ He noticed that Ciaran tensed when Elizabeth said "stolen her". Maybe this is why Artorias decided to throw himself into the Chasm of the Abyss.

-And so your friend left to the Chasm. Without the Princess, the barrier will soon fall. I assume you perceived how weak it is? If that were to happen - when it happens - all these people are doomed.

And what must he do? Throw himself in there as well? What if the _ irreversible _ has already happened? Then he would have to ease his friend’s suffering and let him leave this world with his honor intact. There's no one else to do it, for he is the only one who is capable of standing against the Wolf Knight.

-So what will we do?- Ciaran asks, looking directly at Ornstein's face, or rather his helmet.

-Not we, but I.  _ I will go after him. _


	2. I'm on my way

-What thou meanest?

Ciaran fully turns to Ornstein, surprise, no, shock and misunderstanding in her voice. Behind the cyclops mask, the Lion Knight can see a silent question "why" written on her face. 

-I mean, that I will go after Artorias. _Alone_.

-You cannot!

Her voice is loud, and she protests because _he can not just leave her here and go on his own, she must go with him to do something and..._

His voice washes over her like a wave, destroying all her previous thoughts.

-Yes, I can. I order thee to stay here. In the case of the worst scenario, I want at least one of us to return back to Anor Londo. 

Ciaran looks at him for thirty seconds, as if trying to find an answer to her inner question but then she storms out as if trying to run away from something. 

Ornstein deeply sighs. He expected a reaction like this. He may have not spoken with her much, neither did he saw her often, but there is one thing he knew: whenever it was something that concerned Artorias, Ciaran was always near in some way, trying to help. He remembers how one day Gough said: "Poor girl. Trying to reach for someone, whose heart is already taken." And that was enough for Ornstein to understand why.

He tried to ask what did he mean by the "already taken" but never received any answer. It seems that the Giant saw more than him, or, perhaps it was not the Lion place to know. 

-So, thou hope to catch up with Knight Artorias? 

He looks up to Elizabeth, her eyes filled with concern and her voice gentle. 

-Indeed. If my thoughts are correct, then the Primeval Man has taken the Princess to the Chasm of the Abyss. It is where his tomb is, is it not?

-I am afraid so. Oh, if only they'd listened... 

The mushroom lady goes silent. So apparently, he needs to find a way to the Chasm. It seems there's nothing more he can get from Elizabeth. 

_Ciaran must know something,_ echoing in his mind, but she stormed out and now Knight Captain needs to find her first.

Maybe explain his decision to the assassin, even thou his brain told him that _no, you are her Captain, you don't have to do that._ Yet, his heart tells him to find her, to explain and ask if Artorias told her something that the Lion can find useful. 

He leaves the garden, little branches crushing under his feet. He fights an urge to take his helmet off, stop and just enjoy the beauty of this place, as he enters the castle once again. It became some sort of his habit: whenever he would travel with Artorias to the Darkroot Garden, the Lion Knight would just enjoy the nature around him.

He finds Ciaran after a minute or so, staying in shadows, watching over humans. He hears their quite chattering with each other, as they eat.

Mostly they speak of the princess and of Artorias, and how brave and strong he was _. A sweet praises._

He comes closer to the woman. She's leaning to the wall, her head lowered to the ground, arms crossed a top of her chest.

-Ciaran, you must understand, - he begins, watching for every detail in her posture that might change, -I do it not just because I want things this way. And I know how much do you fish to help sir Artorias by any means, but we cannot forget what the Abyss can. In the worst scenario, I would have to face him and ease his suffering. In the best, I would have to drag him back on me. 

Ornstein hates to talk or even think of the worst that could happen and it's outcomes. Artorias was a strong and skilled warrior, that is for sure, there were no equals to him, especially with a greatsword and greatshield, which made the Lion Knight proud. After all, Artorias was the knight he's got to train personally.

_It was the late evening, the sun had already set down, letting the moon take its place in a sky. The night slowly covered the great Anor Londo. In these late hours, a few could be found outside and the Lion Knight was one of them. His mind, always busy with thousands of thoughts, with "what ifs" and "I should have...", could never let him sleep properly, so often he founds himself wondering in an empty training court._

_But today it seems it was not completely empty._

_Ornstein hears the clashing of steel, loud "Humphs" and "Ughs" and so he moves to the source of the sound._

_As the Knight comes closer, he sees one of his Silver Knights, but this one... He borrows a greatsword and moves with it the way as if he was dancing._

_An art of sword possession was itself like a dance. But most of the Knights moved sharp, without that strange grace. This one, however..._

_His moves weren't perfect, but it's clear as a day - the Knight's got a huge potential._

_The Knight Captain observers the other from the shadows, watching closely for about five minutes before he makes his presence known._

_-You put too much strength in that spin move, it will tire you fast. Try to relax after the sword is in the air - let it work for you._

_The Silver Knight almost jumps from his boots, as he turns his head to Ornstein. The moment he sees the golden armor and famous Lion helmet he straightens himself._

_-Lord Ornstein! I am sorry if I disturbed thou sle..._

_Ornstein immediately interrupts him:_

_-You didn't disturb me in any way, do not worry._

_The Knight visibly relaxes, as he lowers his shoulder and stands more firmly._

_-So, - the Lion takes a few steps forward as he speaks, -what is your name?_

_-Artorias, sir.- said softer and calmer than it should be._

_-I am impressed, Artorias. I haven't seen the Knight moving with such passion and grace, especially with a greatsword. For how long you were training like this?_

_The Captain's voice doesn't sound commanding or like a voice of someone from above. More like the voice of an old friend you haven't seen for a long time._

_-For half and a year, my Lord. And thank thee for thou kind words._

_-This is nothing but true. And I can tell you more - you have a potential. A potential that is a crime not to use._

_Artorias seems surprised, as he asks:_

_-What thou meanest?_

_-I mean that I want to train you personally. See, what you can do. Willing to begin our training, I say, tomorrow at the dawn?_

_The Knight doesn't hesitate even for a second:_

_-I would love to._

The Lion taught the Wolf everything he knew, and the Wolf has learned much more in his own. In the end, he became of the best and was granted the title of one of the Trusted Gwyn's Knights. He stood on the same level with Ornstein, even thou the last one was still his Captain.

And now, if the irreversible has happened the Knight Captain would have to face him in one on one combat. It would be hard - not just physically, but emotionally as well. After all, Artorias is his closest friend. The _only_ friend, for that matter. And see him die, be the one to...

His heart squeezed in pain.

The assassin sighed, as she finally raised her head. 

-I... I know. It's just...- her voice trembling as if she was about to cry, -It hurts. Not to be able to help. To stay behind.

They fall into silence. Even humans stop their chattering in the background. Ornstein turns his head and sees the hall being emptier than before. 

-He left to the north-west from the belltower of the destroyed cathedral. The path goes through the forest.

The Knight Captain nods to her words, as he starts to slowly walk off. But right before leaving the hall, he slightly turns his head to the woman.

-Thank you, Ciaran. And while I'm absent, take care of these people.

And with that, he leaves the castle with his spear in both hands. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to show a bit of their past


	3. Return what is his.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Ornstein meets someone with something important.

Heavy metal doors closed behind the Lion Knight with a loud _clash_. As he walks through, the first thing that he sees is a dark silhouette of Mountain that stays a bit further from the gates.   
  
-Changed your mind, I see?   
  
The horse humphs as if in silent agreement with Captain, as the last one let his fingers go through the black mane. He thinks of how the distribution of the Primeval Mans grave affected the Oolacile and its citizens: if those monsters were once _human beings..._ And then there are sorcerers whom he yet to encounter, and there is wild humanity and the barrier that soon will fall - a weak attempt to form a safe place. Why didn't Ciaran write him sooner? The situation got out of hand even _before_ Artorias has arrived. And that damn fool...   
  
Ornstein shakes his head. Of course, she would've written him sooner. The assassin probably tried and not once, but keeping how _actually_ bad the situation is, is such an Artorias thing to do. He wonders how the Wolf Knight managed to talk Ciaran into not sending a letter sooner: maybe her feelings played their role in it.   
  
While he thinks, the Lion climbs the horse. He can spend all day thinking of " _hows_ " and " _should've haves_ " when there's no point in that: the only way to change the situation is to put the Primeval Man at rest once again. But before it he needs to find Artorias: dead, alive or...   
  
He better not be the third.   
  
And with that, the Captain spurs his horse and with loud snoring, it goes with a gallop.   
  
  
  
The cathedral seems to be almost untouched compared to covered in dark slime and half-destroyed buildings around it. The bell tower has slightly leaned to the side, and there is a giant crack in the ground not so far away from it. He takes notice of at least seven human corpses lying near the entrance: on the steps, most had their arms stretch forward. They desperately tried to reach for the doors: to find salvation inside the sacred place, only to _die_ being _so close._..  
  
The Lion then looks slightly to his right, and there it is - a huge cleft. The other side is way too far for the Mountain to jump over, as the Knight Captain takes a closer look. _Artorias came that way_ , he realizes when he notices a few dead Abyss creatures there. But apparently, Ornstein needs to find another one. So he looks around once again: more closely this time, but finds only two.   
  
First - to take a loop through the streets that are one hundred percent filled with _those_ creatures. Second - go straight through the Cathedral.   
  
He decides to go with the last one. 

As the rider enters through half-destroyed doors the Lion stops the horse dead in its tracks from the sight: 

Dozens of dead humans, most of them huddle to each other. There are men, women, and, _for Gwyn's sake,_ children, some of them not older than _a few months._ They were hiding here, praying to all Gods that they knew to save them because that is the only thing they could do. _Pray._  
  
Some of the bodies are torn apart, the Knight can see teeth and claw marks and in some part sticking out guts. The Mutants bodies not so far - a sword gashes visible across their chests and heads. _Must be Artorias,_ Ornstein comes to a conclusion, as he finally unfreezes. He lightly spurs, and the animal slowly starts to make its way through the main hall of the Cathedral, its hooves clacking against the blood and mud covered tile.   
  
A majestic place is even after such a disaster, even with blood and dead bodies around. High ceilings with handmade paintings of different Gods: he can recognize Allfather Llyod and Caitha, and a piece of Kremmel in those half crumbled painted faces. There was more once, he can tell, but due to all of this destruction, there is not much left. However, it is strange for the Knight to see God paintings at the _ceilings._ In Anor Londo, there are no paintings at all, aside from Ariamis and two paintings of lovely Gwynewere. A massive chandelier with a few candles is right in the center, it's supportive chain heavily damaged. It will fall - sooner or later.   
  
He also takes the notice that there some sort of barricades at the windows made out of branches, chairs and wood planks. _A weak and useless_ attempt to create a safe place. Not accurate, built _in a hurry_.

Mountain comes through the huge crack in the wall enough for both of them to pass and once again they are in the streets.   
  
-Alright. I'm spending too much time observing things. I have to stay focus. - he speaks to himself as he spurs the horse once again - more harshly this time.   
  
The Mountain takes a gallop as they start to move down the streets.   
  
The clacking of hooves echoed through the empty streets. It is strange, actually. The Lion Knight, of course, did not expect the streets to be filled with life, but...   
  
There is _nothing._  
  
There are no monsters, no dead bodies. As if someone snapped their fingers and every living being have vanished from the Downtown. As he comes closer to the stone walls surrounding the city the Captain gets that strange feeling... 

_Something is not right. As if out of place._  
  
He can't point his finger on what exactly. It just a heavy feeling in his chest, as if instead of heart there was something heavy, a _Dragon Tooth_ for example, and there is _sixth feeling_ telling him that something is off, perhaps. And the Lion must point out that his sixth feeling has _not_ failed him once.   
  
So when there are clapping of powerful _wings_ he understands. His eyes dart to the source of the sound: a black shadow on the ground is the first thing he notices. And when the Lion looks higher, the only thing he clearly sees in that black blur is _a bright orange eye._  
  
-No, - he mumbles, - It cannot be. W-why here? Why is this _beast_ here?   
  
Yellow eyes follow the dark silhouette until it melts in clouds. Things were only getting better. Not only Artorias is _still_ somewhere in Chasm, not only the Princess have been stolen, not only the barrier, the one, and the only thing that kept the rest of citizens safe, soon will fall, but the three-eyed dragon is here, and his name literally means _a calamity._  
  
Oolacile seemed to be a damned magnet to all of the worst things that can ever happen. The spread of the Abyss _an_ d the appearance of the ancient dragon, the one that managed to survive a dragon war, which from a war turned into a bloody massacre once the Gods won. And it was not just a phrase that Ornstein used. It indeed was a _massive bloody massacre_ , eradication of an _entire_ Dragon race. And only three survived.   
  
The scaleless white dragon with a crystal breath that betrayed his own. The one, that was raised by the Gods to fight against the Darkness endlessly, for both were eternal. And the three-eyed black dragon that managed to slip away from their spears, swords, and arrows.   
  
As the bearer of a title "Dragonslayer", he must follow Kalameet and make sure that the number of survivors would come to _two_ and that humans and Ciaran are safe.   
  
But _to the Abyss this title._  
  
If Kalameet wanted to kill and destroy he would have done so long before the Lion's or even Wolf's arrival. Or at least the dragon would not fly _further_ into the forest but engage and burn what is left of the Oolacile with everyone in it and lastly, or firstly, attack him.   
  
_But Kalameet flew past._  
  
_And Ornstein needed to save Artorias. Either from Abyss or himself._  
  
So the Knight spurs Mountain with all his force. The horse rears up with a loud neighing and then falls on all its fours and takes almost an insane speed for a horse.   
  
But after all, it is a specific breed, _is it not?_

As the horse gallops through the forest, Ornstein pulls out his spear and swings with it widely. There are _a lot_ of strange creatures that would like to welcome them in their forest. A strange... um, tree looking like creatures with garden scissors and hayforks and giant stone Golems, similar to the stone guardians in the Dark Root Garden. While Golems are way too slow to catch up with them, the gardeners, _let them be called gardeners_ , are fast enough to try and stab Mountain. Wide swipes of Lion's spear just throw them out of the way. 

The path of which Ciaran had spoken about was quite hard to find. Barely visible amongst tall grass and flowers, _rarely used_ , the Knight assumes. 

Ornstein guides Mountain through the forest, his eyes focused on that small path. It is kinda hard with that speed, everything passes like a blur and that small trail almost melts in it. 

It takes about six minutes before Ornstein harshly pulls the reins. The black horse slows down, balking with its leading legs into the ground. 

There is a small open space with a strange stone building. _Not a house_ , the Knight takes a notice, for it has no roof and is way too small to fit even a human. And then... 

Is it Thunder? 

Just like Ornstein, the Wolf Knight has his own horse. Just like Mountain, Thunder was a specific breed, however, unlike his brother his equine coat color was palomino: almost golden with a white mane. There were many jokes in Anor Londo that their horses completed them: Ornstein, wearing his golden armor riding black as the starless sky Mountain, and Artorias, wearing dark silver with a vendigo scarf armor atop of the Thunder. 

" _Just like you two complete each other_ ", the Lion hears someone saying it in his head, but can't tell exactly who. It could've been Gough, Lord Gwyn or... 

**No matter.**

Ornstein slides from the saddle onto short grass. How long Thunder was here? And where in the Flame's sake is Artorias then? Or Sif for that matter? 

-Hey, buddy, - Lion speaks, as he comes closer and pets horse's back. -How are you? And where is your owner? 

But the horse remains silent, as it turns it's head to the Knight. Ornstein moves his hand to the horse's forehead, patting it softly. Thunder humpfs in response. As Ornstein exhales, he puts his hand away. He decides to check the building if there is anything useful. Or, perhaps, even a few survivors. 

The Knight Captain steps inside, his metal boots clacking against the stone floor. Half of the opposite from the entrance door is collapsed and there is a huge square hole next to a bright greyish... plate? 

_It seems to be pressurizable._

He comes closer and with no hesitation steps on it. He hears something like a smooth pitch... melody? As the plate starts to glow with a soft blue light. _No, not the plate itself,_ he corrects himself, as the Lion looks more closely, _the light goes from underneath_.

After a few seconds, _a platform_ with strange curvy ornamentsarrives. 

-So, magic elevator, huh? This town is definitely is something... Disturbing a Primeval Man's tomb and causing the spread of the Abyss, having an Ancient Dragon nearby and _fucking_ magic elevators. What next? A time traveler? Maybe there is Gough somewhere? What _a coincidence_ that would be! Just what I need! 

Ornstein is... easily said, _really tired_. From _everything_ , to say the least. Since the Lord left to the Klin everything seemed to only get worse and worse by each day. Demons started to make their way to the surface from the Izalith, destroying everything in their way, Grave Lord Nito lost his place in Catacombs and now dead could no longer find peace, and there is _the undead curse,_ people seeking shelter, other Gods leaving Anor Londo behind, and the fact that one day the Sun had not risen.   
  
Just like that. As if faded from the sky. If not for the Dark Sun and their illusion, Ornstein can only imagine what would have happened. _Panic. Anarchy. Disorder._

This all just seems to be so goddamn unrealistic, as if this all just _one_ of _his nightmares_.

The Dragonslayer steps onto the platform and with the same sound it came up it starts to move down. 

There is so much on his shoulders. His title and the fact that Gwyndolin never left, _and probably never will,_ their father's tomb only dabbled that weight. Once per month, they send him something like _to-do-list,_ and he does _everything_ and even _more_. Ornstein watches as once mighty beautiful city loses its power and people. Humans keep leaving Anor Londo, other Gods have _already_ abandoned _their_ city. Only young Gwyndolin and dear lovely Yorshka - whom he has seen only once, stayed. And he? What had _he_ become?  
  
From the best of the best, the _great_ _Dragonslayer_ to the _guard dog_ of the slowly emptying city that did not shine any longer, but rather just _reflected_ it's previous glory.  
  
But at least he had Artorias as his side.  
  
That _blue-eyed idiot_ with his wolf pup was the only thing that kept holding him together all this time, _actually_ helping and not just throw around words that held no meaning.

_It was already past midnight and Ornstein only now managed to get into his chambers. His entire day was filled with nothing, but running from place to place, giving orders and signing a thousand or so different papers. He even stopped reading them on one point, just asked where should he sign and do it in a mere seconds after the answers were given. And what about those ones, that only Gwyndolin could sign?_

_Guess who had to bring them all the way to Lord Gwyn tomb and back._

_And if not for Artorias, he would have to go to Silver Knights training, and not just watch, but actually train them and train them good. Only afterward the Lion Knight will have the opportunity to write the evening reports._

_And_ _within the morning everything would start again. Neverending circle, that drained all life from him. Even his personal servants notice that._

_He remembers how Milena, wise lady in her late forties with silver hair, once said: "Thou hair, my lord, has lost its true color within past years. Maybe thou should visit our Healer, hm? See if he can return that flaming color. It is a crime, really, to let such a unique color lost its richness"_

_But there was no miracle and no herbs to easy that weight on his shoulders._

_Tho there is someone to help him._

_His thoughts were interrupted by a knocking on the door and gentle, but a little bit rough voice follows soon after._

_-Lord Ornstein? Are thou still up?_

_Speaking of the Devil..._

_The Dragonslayer inhales sharply. He just wants to finish this last damn report, go to bed and steal last few hours of sleep before the circle of everyday routine will start again. There is that strong wish to just ignore Artorias, and his brain tells him to do so, for he will leave then, and he could finish his work in peace and..._

_-Yes, I am. Come inside, don't stand outside like an idiot._  
  
_But of course, he just can't. Not when there is Artorias._  
_  
The door opens with a light screeching, revealing a tall man with ravenette hair and that smile on his face that seemed to be warmer than any fireplace in the Palace. Without further hesitation, the Wolf Knight sneaks inside his Captain chambers, closing the door behind him. Ornstein tears himself from the parchment, rising golden eyes to his friend. He must have been heading to bed, he decides, for Knight wears a dull dark green shirt, with small inelaborate ornaments just a bit brighter than the shirt near the collar, that ends just a little bit higher his knees, plain black trousers, and regular boots._

_-Green suits you. You should wear it more often,- falls from Lion's lips before he can process it. Artorias blinks a few times, before laughing softly and his eyes sparkle._

_-You really think so?- the Knight asks, as he comes closer and lowers over captain shoulder a bit, examines the parchment laying atop the table. Ornstein eyes follow his fellow friend, and then just for a moment stop at Artorias face: tanned skin, thin lips, and "predator-shaped" eyes, a little narrow, with brows slightly shifted to his nose bridge. The large scar, that diagonally crosses his nose and splits his left brow, and a dozen small ones - barely visible. Thick eyelashes, something that not many women had, and, of course, these beautiful eyes, that looked just like the Lake in Dark Root Garden: greyish with cobalt blue from the sky reflection. Messy hair, which strands would always fall on his eyes, framed his cheeks, exhibited his cheekbones._

_In that dimmed light from the candles, eyes filled with concern and worry Artorias looks..._

_Majestic._

_Incredible._

_Absolutely beautiful._

_-Of course, I do.- More of a statement of a fact, rather than an answer. Blue eyes then meet golden ones and there it is, there that smile again, the one that feels like home. Ornstein feels his own lips twitch in response, that fluttering feeling of warmth and safety is slowly starting to feel his entire being through his vines._

_And in one moment all his of his troubles seemed to vanish._

_A rough hand so gently falls upon his shoulder, slightly squeezing it, while another falls upon Ornstein's hand, taking the feather away._

_-How about you, my dear Captain, will let me finish that report and go have a rest? We don't want you to overworked yourself, do we?_

_Ornstein leans into the side of Artorias lower body, letting his eyes slid shut. Hand on his shoulder moves, and for a moment the Lion feels disappointed, but when the same hand goes through his hair it relieves the Lion a bit. He allows the feather to be taken from him, allows his armor to be taken off and placed on the stand, allows to lead himself into the softness of his bed and then his mind slips into the land of dreams, while he listens to the quiet rustling of a feather against the paper and soft humming that sounds awfully similar to a lullaby._

_In the morning the report is ready and there is a note atop that says: "You don't have to do everything alone."_

-I'm coming, Artorias. - the Lion whispers to no one as he takes notice that the elevator has already stopped. 

Dragonslayer steps out, letting a weak wind gently touch his skin through the teeth of his helmet. His face feels sore, realization hits him only now, and he wants to take it off just for a while. 

And so he does. Not safe and foolish, yes. Yet again, there is something inside of him that tells, no, _begs_ for the Knight to do so. 

His fingers grip firmly onto the Lion " cheeks" and with a swift motion, the Lion frees his face. Wind hits him more harshly than before, tho, it's still weak, but refreshing, as it ruffles small strands of dull fire hair. Dull golden eyes, in which now can easily be seen all of the _tiredness_ that has been bottling inside _for_ years, dart across the place, observing every detail. This is some sort of a small canyon, or ravine, maybe. There is a stone bridge that leads to the opposite side, and there is a _person_ near it. _Looks human enough_ , a thought slips in a tired mind, as he observes once again. Another stone building on the other side, a bit larger - _could that be more magic elevators? And where do they suppose to lead then?_

-Well, you look human enough, - a voice, a bit husky and _laughing_ sounds to his right. 

-Wanted to say the same about you, - Lion's voice is deeper, more harsh and cold. Golden eyes dart to the human, eyeing him from head to toes. _Never seen any clothes like these before..._

Man only laughs dryly in return, even thou his posture doesn't change - still leaning onto the wall, arms crossed atop his chest, his face is hidden behind that strange... Hat? Was it even a hat? 

-Oh, forgive me my manners. My name is Marvelous Chester. Nothing, but a mere vendor. And you...? 

Even if there are so many emotions in his voice, that Chester hasn't even slightly moved, as if he did not talk at all. 

-To you - Dragonslayer Ornstein. 

_A merchant? In the middle of a forest?_ That was not just strange, it was actually pretty damn suspicious, to say the least. 

-And what is _a mere vendor_ doing here? Quite a dangerous place to merchandise. Especially when there is a town filled with Abyss creatures nearby. - Something is not right with this man. That man just feels _not right._ As if he doesn't belong here. And by _here_ , Ornstein meant _entire Lordran._

-Here? Well, no matter how sad it is, but I'm here not on my own will, - the man chuckles, - And Oolacile? Even if some of these creatures decide to tear me apart and feed of my corpse, well, I am more than capable of protecting myself. 

The Knight can hear the devilish grin in that voice, even tho he cannot see Chester's face. _People hide their faces when they don't want others to see their emotions. Faces, especially eyes - they can tell a lot about their owner._ And _it's true,_ he knows it by his own experience _._

-Tell me what, Chester, - with that the called one raised his head and, _for Gwyn's sake,_ he was wearing a damn mask with a _grin._ -Have you seen another Knight around? A very specific one actually, the same height as me, wielding a greatsword and greatshield, accompanied by a wolf. 

There is that dry laugh again and it kinda starts to piss Ornstein off. Chester lowers his head again, as he speaks: 

-Yes. Quite a unique picture to see, I say. 

-Where did he go?- Ornstein tries to keep his voice neutral, but can't help it: the question sounds more of _a command, demanding_ and a bit loud.

Another laugh, not so dry this time, -And what will _I_ get for this information? 

_Of course,_ echoes in Knight's mind, _another one of those merchants that talk only when there's money involved. I don't have time!  
  
-_I don't have time to play these ga...  
  
Cold voice dies in his throat when his eyes catch a little sparkle near the man's neck. The Lion has to screw up his eyes to make out, what it is Chester wearing. And when he _does,_ it seems like everything around him slows down and his own blood freezes in his veins.   
  
_A pendant._  
  
_A dark pendant with specific silver tracery.  
  
_In just one moment everything inside Ornstein explodes with a power of the _First Flame,_ as his dull eyes start to _burn_ with fury and his lips twitch into a growl as _the Lion bares its fangs._ He harshly pulls the man up by the collar of the dark coat with one hand at the same eye level, letting the cylinder fall off in the process. And Ornstein sees _animal_ fear in these eyes, as they run all over the Knight Captains face. The Lion then speaks loudly, his voice making the man in his arms shiver:  
  
**- _Where did you get that pendant?_**

Smaller hands desperately try to unclench almost an iron grip at the man's collar. 

-I found it, you, madman! Put. Me. Down! I said..! - Chester freezes, his mount open and the rest of the sentence lost in his throat when he feels the cold steel pressing against its skin.  
  
- _ **Found it, you say? Something tells me you stole it. -**_ Ornstein's fingers squeeze the handle of the spear so hard, that he's sure that the knuckles turned white underneath his gauntlets. He desperately wishes to just let the spearhead cut the man throat open and watch him choke on his own blood. Bolts of electricity run through his veins and deep inside, there is that feeling he thought he might _never_ have a chance to experience again.   
  
_Boiling lava inside, a storm of doom. The feeling that made him fight three times harder, that made him tear dragon scales off their owner's skin, brake their wings and sever their jaws.  
  
**Range.**  
  
_-Look, I admit! I stole it from that Knight you were speaking about! No need to resort to violence! Take it and I-I'll tell you where he went! - voice breaks in some points and man start to stutter.  
  
Chester frantically fumbles around his chest, until he manages to hoop the silver pendant up and violently pull it off his neck. Human extends his arm with a pendant to the Knight Captain. The moment he does, the iron grip in the man collar disappears and he falls to the ground on his two. Then there is harsh movement: covered in golden armor hand reaps the pendant from Chester's hand, and the chainlet scrapes the skin of the fingers.  
  
The Lion Knight step away from the human, as he clenches tightly onto the magick jewelry, his eyes, in which fury started to fade, focused on those silver ornaments.   
  
And now everything only turned worse.  
  
Not only Artorias was somewhere in the chasm of the Abyss, but the _only_ thing that was supposed _to protect him_ from the dark magic is in _Ornstein's_ hand.  
  
The Captain clenches his teeth so hard that they _creak_ , and then the embers of range ignite once again, tho not so bright this time.  
  
He looks at the man from his shoulder, his words sharp and stares devouring: -Where did the Knight go?  
  
Chester, who rectified his leather cloak, and already return cylinder atop of his head and once again hid his face behind the laughing mask answered almost immediately, with no more of this richness of emotions in his voice.  
  
-He went to the Township. The only way from here is through the Amphitheater.  
  
_Amphitheater? Where in the...  
  
_The Lion turns his head to the right and _guess_ _what._   
  
_The was severely damaged Amphitheater. How in_ the Lord's namehe didn't notice such large building before?!   
  
Whatever. He needs to find Artorias and do it _fast_. That idiot, _why didn't he turned back? There is no way he couldn't notice that the pendant was gone! Artorias, if you still alive, I will beat all stupidity out of you!_

Ornstein almost starts to run as he comes closer to the Amphitheater, and as he does, he can hear heavy steps, clashing of steel and _that hysterical laughing_ of the bloatheads and so familiar _ughs,_ that for one moment he stops to make sure he did not mishear. They repeated a few more times before Ornstein is one hundred percent confident that this _is Artorias,_ and he is so relieved that he found him, that Ornstein forgets about his helmet that he dropped when the fury clouded his mind and _almost_ killed Chester. _  
_

So he rushes to the entrance of the Theather, spear now firmly in both of his hands, chainlet wrapped around armored fingers, brows frowned, fire once again in his eyes.   
  
But once the golden boots start to clack against the stone floor and his eyes catch the familiar figure that fire fades within the mare seconds, pupils turn to the size of a pin and insides squeezes in pain. The Knight doesn't notice when his hands start to tremble, when his lips start to twitch strangely, as if there was something that wanted to be heard, but just couldn't find a way, and he ignores how lump in the throat is formed and makes it harder to breathe, and when he speaks, Lion's voice is not demanding, harsh and cold, it is a _broken_ whisper. In one moment all his anger at the Wolf Knight and fury from the encounter with that vendor fades away, allowing the pain of realization take their place.   
  
- _N-no... Artorias...-_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas and Happy New Year, everyone!


	4. Defense

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> while Ornstein facing his greatest fear, Ciaran has her own problems

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Took me quite a time. Thanks for your waiting!

-Thank you, Ciaran. And while I'm absent, take care of these people.   
  
The assassin's eyes follow Dragonslayer back until it disappears behind the corner. A moment it does, she drops her gaze to the ground, last words of her Captain echoing in her mind.   
  
_"Take care of these people"_  
  
The woman laughs quietly. She was an assassin, not some kind of a "human babysitter". When Lord Gwyn told her to "take care of someone", they would be found dead within the week. Besides, these fools brought it upon their town themselves. If not for them, the spread of the Abyss wouldn't start, and there would have been no one to steal Princess Dusk and Artorias would not throw himself into the Depths of the Abyss, Ornstein wouldn't have to leave Anor Londo, and after all...   
  
_None_ of this would happen.   
  
And now it was Gwyn's Knights to clean all of this mess those pitiful beings made.   
  
With a chance not to return back... alive.   
  
Ciaran was not used to a thought that one of them might die any day. Surely, she had thoughts of how she might not return one day from her mission, but...   
  
Both Artorias and Ornstein came through the Dragon War. They fought alongside each other. They must've had... that in mind.   
  
You can never tell if you will return from the battle or not. Always a chance of unexpectable things to happen: more enemies, sudden change of weather, even your own body can betray you.   
  
But she?   
  
She wasn't even _born_ yet. Nor her mother, nor grandmother. She never fought in the _actual_ war. The Lord's Blade group have been formed dozens of years after.   
  
When everything stabilized.   
  
War itself is one of the most expensive "pleasures", but war with the enemy that can fly, breath fire, and has a stone-like skin, can kill an economy of any country just with a snap of its fingers. The losses were not just large, they were gigantic, and with every year they only grew. If not for their faith, their skills, and Gough's mighty arrows... Who knows what the outcomes would be.   
  
Yet, they've won. The _world_ itself _turned_ _upside_ _down_. Dragons were _no more_.   
  
She still clearly remembers the day she became one of the Lord's blades.   
  
Their hair - into tight braids. The same clothing, the same mask, even the blades were the same. Similar in their body type, all of them almost the same height. Copies of each other.   
  
Where one dies, the other will take her place.   
  
They had only one leader - Lord Gwyn. To each other - equals and strangers.   
  
Until the accident. Back then it already was only five of them. But afterward...   
  
From that moment she was alone. Her previous mask - shattered, the new one - mark of distinction. Her right middle finger, once bare, now ringed with a hornet. From shadows, on the same level with the great Dragonslayer, the Giant archer, and the Wolf Knight.   
  
From no one to one of Trusted Knights of Gwyn.   
  
_The ceremony began at the sunset. It was organized in the main hall of the Cathedral, as any ceremony of dedication in knights. There were two squads of Silver Knights: all of them standing in perfect lines, twenty Knights, ten from each squad, in two lines along the wide red carpet with golden ornaments embroidered around the edges, with their swords high, as if they were aiming for the sky. Lord Gwyn in his best armor, by his right arm - the great Dragonslayer, near him, just a bit behind - A Wolf Knight; by left one - a giant archer._  
  
_As she walks through "the corridor", the assassin keeps her eyes on a mere little dot somewhere between Lord Gwyn and, to-be-her-soon Commander. Her little hands are sweaty, as well as her forehead. Oh, how much she wanted to put that new mask on as soon as possible. The moment her previous one shattered, the woman felt as if her entire being was naked._  
  
_As she finally stops in front of her Lord by dropping onto one knee, she lets her eyes slide to the ground. She then hears the long ringing of metal, as afterward there is the weight of her Lord's blade on her right shoulder._  
  
_-We all gathered here to memorize this moment, - The Lord of Sunlight starts, his voice powerful, yet warm. It echoes around the place, making it a little rough. -As another flaming soul takes its righteous place. Since now, and till the very end of the world itself, I, Gwyn, Lord of Sunlight, grant this loyal and brave girl title of one of my most Trusted Knights. May's thine hands be steady, thine blows - fatal, faith - unbreakable and undoubtful..._  
  
_And, as in any ceremony of that kind, it had one of these long speeches. It's shameful to say, but maybe at one point, she stopped listening._  
  
_-From now on, I grant thee the cyclops mask, - at these words the young girl with blonde hair, that is put into a tight braid, raises her head. Her eyes catch a small maiden in white with a red pillow, atop of which lays the said mask. For a moment Ciaran hesitates, and in blind hope to find support looks over at her Lord._  
  
_Gwyn only smiles on her gently, as a father would on his daughter. He simply shakes his head, as if saying: " Go one. This is yours. You deserve it."_  
  
_And so with a new-found self-belief, she rises at her feet, with gentlest of movements takes the porcelain mask and lets it became her face for everyone in the room. She can't help but let out a breath she didn't notice she was holding, as soon as cold porcelain touches her skin. The ceremony is not over yet tho, there is still one thing that awaits for her._  
  
_-And, as to all of my trusted Knights, I grant thee this ring, - another maiden in white appears before her with the same red pillow, only now there is that small jewelry atop. -May all of thee blows be fast and steady as the bite of the hornet._  
  
_The ring was small yet accurate, with a hornet carving at its front. A little masterpiece that fitted just rights, as if it always belonged on her middle finger._  
  
_-Thou have comes through a lot, but never once fled from danger. Thou have not just blindly followed the orders, likewise many others, but relied on thou mind and heart. So may the Flame guide this soul even in the darkest of times, and may the_ _Sun shine_ _forever!_  
  
_The hall exploded in loud applause for the new Knight and Ciaran feels like she never has been happier than right now, in this very moment. For all her struggling the Gods sent her their blessing._  
  
-Ay, milady Ciaran!   
  
Someones rough and low voice harshly interrupts her thoughts, as if the galloping horse were tried to be stopped dead in its tracks. The assassin jerks her head up to the owner of the voice.   
  
In front of her stands tall, large woman, wearing quite a unique armor: Ciaran usually saw it on elite knights of Astora, tho she wore no helmet. Half of the woman's face is ruined: harsh, blunt scarrings, right eye, that awfully looks like a glass bead, sticking out, with sagging pink skin underneath. Her higher lip ripped, showing teeth, creating an expression as if the woman were baring them, long and ugly scar with crust goes across the face, the right part of the nose missing, with gore and, in some places, muscles.   
  
The wound is fresh - two weeks or so old. It started to heal up already and healed quite good: perhaps a medicine took some part in it. _Didn't she get it when she was sent into the Township?_  
  
Hair is dark and greasy, tied in a high ponytail, brows narrowed. Her facial expressions show the woman's concern and worry.   
  
-I'm _not_ a milady, Lord-Commander Berna. I thought I already informed thee.   
  
-So neither am I a Commander.   
  
When Ciaran arrived with Artorias, they've met the last Commander of the leading troops of Oolacile ( _or, if to be honest, regular guards that patrolled the town and watched over the Castle_ ). There was not much of them since Oolacile is a peaceful town that never had troubles with bandits, thieves, or other scum, became even less when the spread started. The man, however, died very soon - on the second day of their arrival. He, alongside ten of his men, went to rescue people in the western part of Oolacile. Ciaran clearly remembers how he practically _ordered_ Artorias to stay inside walls of the Castle, shouting in his face with fury and no fear.  
  
_-My daughters are still there, and I'm coming to either save them or die trying!  
_  
Berna was a right-hand man and soon after the word of the fall of the Commander return back to the castle with two soldiers and about seven men, who were wielding swords, hayforks and simple knives with five women and two little girls at their side not older, then the age of twelve, the rest of the troops turned to be headless. Panic started to rise quickly, swallowing people whole, so Princess Dusk needed to act fast: with no hesitation, she put Berna in a leading position _(even after that the woman did not consider herself as Commander)_.   
  
That was her last act. After that, _the beast_ came for her.  
  
-Tho, it is no matter. There is something important I'd like to discuss with thee. Somewhere more..., - she looks behind her left shoulder ( _probably because she's blind on the right eye, Ciaran decides_ ) to eye up a few of her fellow soldiers, that sit at one table, - _Private._

The assassin tears herself away from the wall, as she begins to silently follow the Knight. What kind of a topic needed to be discussed away from ears of curious ones? 

While they walk, a blonde woman notices how a warrior in front of her limping on thine left leg. Assassin cannot catch a memory of the first time seeing her: was thee limping back then already, or if it started not so long ago?  
  
-May I wonder?- Ciaran starts, catching up with Commander, and continues, earning from interlocutor rough _hm_ -Where have thou been this past week? I haven't seen thee after sir Artorias left to save _thine_ Princess.-  
  
The short-haired woman, without even looking at the assassin, answers shortly: -That is what I wanted to talk with thee about.  
  
They soon enter the main hall with tall ceilings and, _surprisingly,_ rather simple throne at the end of the hall, standing at the elevation, with mellow blue carpet leading to it. The Sun, that already crossed half of the sky, passed its rays through large windows. This once picturesque place now looked as if it indeed was abandoned for many years - as images of how things here were before the princess abduction flashing before bold blue eyes. Their footsteps echoing around the place, only making both of them feel even smaller than they already are.  
  
-As from a Commander, - Berna suddenly starts, slowly making her way to the throne that hasn't been touched, -they all waiting, what kind of decision I'll make. And when I look around us, when I think of all these _monsters_ that came with the dark, of the fact that the barrier will fall soon...-  
  
The woman goes silent, as she stops right in front of the throne. Her left arm, covered in a metal gauntlet with _claw_ marks, slowly reaches for the armrests, letting its fingers gently brush against the cold surface. Assassins eyes watch closely for every movement of the Lord-Commander, as thine hand clenches into a tight fist.  
  
-We have to face it. Out Princess is _already dead_. I can't presume that sir Artorias followed the same fate, but _these_ people, _they_ are still _alive.-_ Brena spares Ciaran a glance from over a shoulder, before fully turn to the assassin. Her words echo around the throne room with _power_ and _determination,_ as she looks at Ciaran from above.  
  
-And they _are_ going to live.   
  
With no doubt, her voice neutral as always, Lords Blade starts to walk towards the Knight, -And how? It is not like thine words will solve anything.  
  
She stops dead in her tracks, as the notices how the woman _smiles (which looks really odd, if not scarry due to that gruesome wound)._ The watches as the Lord-Commander turns around, then comes closer to the wall right behind the throne. Her hands wander around the stone bricks for a little before her hand freezes in place. Mere seconds after, she puts all of her force into that arm, as the brick underneath _screeched_ and being pushed inside. Brena then steps aside, and right at the moment when Ciaran takes a place near her, a wall starts to _move_ down, revealing a pass that leads somewhere down. The part is already lit with torches, which means was _already used._  
  
-This tunnel was built by my father, especially for princess Dusk. It leads away from the city and is wide enough to fit _a horse._ I'll lead them through here and away from the Oolacile. Somewhere safe from here.  
  
_-Fleeing like little cowards thou are?-_ Ciaran suddenly snaps, her eyes focused on the entrance. -Made a mess, put _someone else_ to fix it, while you ran?-, her voice shakes at the end, while her hands clench into fists.  
  
-It was not _them_ , who disturbed the Tomb!- the warriors _shout_ aggressively, harshly turning to the Lords Blade, -They have done _nothing_ wrong, the ones to blame - already dead.- In the end, Brena manages to contain her anger, sounding cold and detachedly. -And it was sir _Artorias own_ decision to go and rescue princess Dusk, even tho _I_ told him that this is a suicide.  
  
Sparing one last glance to the Assassin, as she leads her shoulder to knead it a bit, the Lord-Commander decides to leave the girl to herself. She _understands,_ after all. She felt _the same_ once.   
  
As the woman walks away, her steps echoing around, the Lords Blade suddenly falls onto her knees, and a broken _sob_ escapes her mount, even tho it is muffled by the mask. Right before leaving the hall, the Commander says aloud, making sure that the Gwyn's Knight can hear her: -We are leaving at the sunset. I'll get ready _my_ people, take all the supplies that are left, and then we leave.  
  
And so there Ciaran stays - on her knees, her head lowered to the ground, with her eyes burning from tears. A few manage to escape from behind of her mask and fall to the ground, leaving small watery dots on the ground. Her hands then suddenly tear the _dammed_ mask away and throw it away. It falls with a loud _thud_ and the assassin can swear she hears the _cracking_ of porcelain, but she can care less. She hysterically tries to wipe salty water from her eyes, clenching her teeth. _No!_ , a voice in her head suddenly screams, _what am I doing here? Crying like a little baby because of someone's words? I have to get it together!  
_  
She wipes away the last bits of her tears, as she stands at her two. No wonder it took her so long to become someone when just implying that Artorias might not be alive already almost broke her down. She needs to fucking _think_ for once and to do something, not just stay in shadows, waiting for _Gods know_ what.  
  
Ciaran takes a few steps to the right to pick up her mask, and there it is - a crack that goes across its left " _cheek_ " and over " _the eye_ ". Quite big, but not fatal - surely, one hit and her mask will shatter into two large pieces, but it's still better than walk around with face _naked._  
  
As she places it back where it belongs, carefully putting stands of pale hair behind her ear, she speaks softly to one, but herself: -As soon as they out of the city, they will no longer need me. And I am free to follow you, my Captain...

Ciaran then leaves the hall with the intention to find Brena. Captain's order is still Captain's order - and she, as his ward, must follow them unquestioning. They are not for nothing, after all.   
  
At the same time, in the hall, where most masses of the survivors were and remainders from the troops and the rest of people that volunteered and on their own took swords and shields in their hands. All of them started to gather around the one figure, that was standing on one of the tables.  
  
-Citizens of Oolacile! Listen to me!- as she speaks, people raise their heads to her. Most of them tired - with emptiness in their eyes. They lost everything - their homes, families, loved ones, and all due to human greed. Some of them even stopped at their pointless prayers, -We need to face the evident. Our princess is dead.- With that, the hall fills with anxious whispers, people start to look at each other as if seeking someone to tell them, that it is all a lie. Lord-Commander doesn't look better - her hands shake, and eyes hysterically wander from face to face. She's nervous, who wouldn't? When there are about seventy people that almost lost the remainings of their hope and _you_ are the one to trample it? -And...- Berna swallows a lump in her throat, -I know, that you all are scared. You all saw these creatures, which came with it. Some people you knew turned into them.- Her _own_ memory vividly flashes before her eyes when she closes them. Her brother, screaming in agony, tearing _his own_ flesh with his _nails_. She takes a deep breath,- But there is still a chance for us. All of us.  
  
At these words all of those present look at her. Soldiers, mere women, _children_. They all look at her like at the rising sun, and for a moment she sees how embers of _hope and faith_ ignite with a force she never saw before.  
  
-There is a secret tunnel in the castle. We will leave this city at the sundown. I am afraid, that I cannot tell _where_ , but whatever we will go, it will be safe. We will build _our own_ town if needed. For now, pick all your belongings. If you can't walk, let someone of the soldiers know.  
  
The hall fills with whispers once again, but words that she can catch are _"new home", "we're going to be safe soon, dear"_ and _"I'll remember it as one big nightmare"_. With a corner of her eye, she notices a small silhouette sneaking inside, and can't help but let a warm smile _(which still looks like she shows her ivories)_ touch her lips, as Berna jumps off a table. Her men immediately surround her with a swarm of questions, mostly with the same context. Only a few did not ask anything, they actually informed their Commander (even if she never considered herself one) that the horses were ready and five carts are waiting to be laden at the end of the tunnel. All they needed is to bring the supplies, the ones that could not walk, horses and they'll free to go.

When the last rays of the sun started to disappear behind the horizon everyone was ready: people stood in lines of two, everyone wearing a bag filled with food, clothes and some instruments. Men with a weapon in front and in the back, the one that bears none right behind - in center women, children, and ones that can't walk in the saddle of the horses. All of them united by one goal - to get out alive, being led by the woman with a corrupted face. They all put their _faith_ in her, for Berna became a beacon in the dark that surrounded them.   
  
Ciaran was there too.  
  
She, as any assassin, silently and closely follows behind the warriors, her blades tightly clenched in her hands, eyes observing. Ears pick any strange sound that might warn of any danger. Tho, as they go, there are no troubles. A ground shakes a bit a few times, but nothing serious happens - just children and some of the women start to panic a bit. Only after around half an hour the Lords Blade notice light in the end: pale and barely noticeable. The group accelerates, as people start to notice it too. A wave of whispers passes trough, _disbelief,_ and _relief_ in voices of so many. As they finally make their way out, they've met with the coldness of the night and the tender touch of the moonlight that penetrates through the branches of pines and firs. The wind gently blows away all of the tiredness, anxiety and the remaining fear from the crowd, as they put their belongings into the cart, harness horses and re-group.  
  
-Thou sure that thou will not comest?- Berna suddenly asks, watching people getting to the work right away, as they leave the tunnel. She feels relieved because the worst of their long "journey" is already behind. It will get easier with years, and, she can swear on the _normal_ part of her face, that one moment she's here, leading people away, and the other she lives a _normal life_ in a little village with its own world.  
  
-Yes. Even if sir Artorias didn't... make it, sir Ornstein can still use my help,- she answers even if its hard to speak of Artorias in... you know, _that_ way.  
  
-Sir Ornstein? The _Great Dragonslayer_ Ornstein?- Commander turns her head to the Assassin, clear surprise in her voice, -How could I've missed such an event?  
  
Ciaran laughs dryly, -Well, he went after sir Artorias the very moment he arrived. And thou probably were preparing for _the great escape.  
  
_The silent falls between them, only to be broken a few seconds by a very... _indecorous_ remark from the Lord-Commander, that, _Ciaran supposes_ , were not meant to be heard.  
  
- _Well, I guess even the Knights of Gwyn cannot always think straight...-_  
  
Ciaran decides to ignore it, as she watches the rest of the citizens reaching the end of the tunnel and with such _happiness_ getting ready to leave. After five minutes of Berna's soldiers comes to report that everything is packed, all of the people are here and they are ready to leave. She nods and sents them ahead of the crown, while she decides to say her last goodbyes to the Assassin.

-I wish thee luck.- she starts, putting her hand atop the handle of the sword. -And I hope that you'll make it in time. May the Flame guide thee.

That was her final words before she left to lead the crowd. Ciaran stood there, near the entrance to the tunnel watching how people were leaving their home without looking back, in hopes to find happiness and salvation in a different place, being led by a woman with _a fire_ burning inside of her soul. All of the survivors are safe in her hands.

And now Ciaran could go after her Captain and _do_ something to help, even if it's either to bring Artorias back or save the Wolf Knight from himself.


	5. Dying is easy, living is harder.

_No._  
  
_It cannot be._  
  
All of this, this is just some fucked up a nightmare of his, for that cannot be happening, and soon, yes, in a moment he will wake up, and the circle will repeat just like always, or maybe he can just...   
  
He squeezes a little piece of his cheek so hard, that the bruise with one hundred percent chance will form later, pain shots through his body like a bolt of electricity, and _that's it._  
  
He's still at the entrance of the Amphitheater, his feet taking roots deep within the ground underneath the stone floor, his pupils the size of the nail head, staring directly at the only person for whom he cared the most, for whom he was ready to throw himself into the open dragon maw.   
  
And so his biggest fear, for all these years hidden deep within Lion's soul and never once showed to the world, have come out _even worse_ than in his nightmares.   
  
His fellow comrade, _best and only friend_ stood there, neither dead, neither alive, near the wall, leaning on his _damaged_ greatsword, left ( _and dominant one_ ) arm hanging at his side under an unnatural angle. His legs were... terrifying. All covered in black, yet again with the same slime-thing, that the Lion saw on the streets. A lot of... smoke, perhaps? The Knight knew no other word to describe the substance that flew around Artorias or... was it from the Abyss slime, or whatever this thing is? A thick visible atmosphere around the Knight, tho it was purple with parts of black and blue in it as well. Another one of the Abyss things, the Lion assumes. There was no shield and no sigh of the wolf pup that followed Artorias everywhere. Could that be, that the pup was no more? Was the one to blame in young Sif's death was the very man that raised him?   
  
The very person that still seemed not to notice someone's else presence. Which is only on hand for Commander - if, perhaps, Artorias noticed him right away, and if he is... _absolutely corrupted_ , then he would engage immediately, aiming for his vital organs and head since _he forgot his damn helmet with that thieving rat_. And Ornstein, paralyzed by the sight would be killed in an instant. A shame for both of them.   
  
There is heavy breathing coming from Artorias direction as if the man was running out of the air and needed _more and more._  
  
But then he moves.   
  
His right hand, with which he held onto the swords, tears in his hood, ripping it away with his helmet. With loud clacking against the stone, it falls near Ornstein's foot and only now does he notice that Artorias almost prays with his half-broken voice.   
  
-...no... I-I, I can't... Ha-have to fi-fight...-   
  
_No._  
  
_His friend is here, fighting with his own self as it seems._  
  
_And Artorias needs his Captain as never before._  
  
-Artorias!- The Knight Captain calls out, and the figure harshly pulls up, jerking thine head to the source of the sound. His face, with a large claw mark across his nose, that _still_ bleeds and there is that black thing in it as well, cobalt blue is almost gone from his bloodshot and a bit glass-like eyes. The blood mixed with black gore dripped from his mouth, his entire being looking so _broken_.   
  
Ornstein stretches his free from spear arm forward, -My friend, please, allow me to...   
  
- **No! Stay away!**  
  
On mere reflexes, the Knight Captain takes a step back, surprised from the sudden shout and change in his friend voice - harsh, cold, broken, yet it echoes around the place with power Ornstein heard only from their Lord. Artorias, who apparently lost his balance during such a sudden movement, falls on his knee, hand gripping onto the handle, his knuckles turning white underneath damaged gauntlet.   
  
Ornstein doesn't listen to the warning tho.   
  
He shorters the distance between them, moving towards the Knight, the closer he gets, the more details he notices: how unhealthy pale the skin became, how his veins swollen, the skin around them with a shade of purple and greenish-yellow, how heavy does his chest moves with each breath the Knight makes.   
  
-Artorias, - The Lion calls ever so soft, as he leaves only a few meters between them, - you are going to be oka...  
  
He doesn't get to finish speaking, as the greatsword, which the injured warrior used as a toehold, swings in the air, missing his chest with mere inches.   
  
-You d... don't understand...! **I** **can't...** **control...** \- the rest if the words turn into a none human scream, with Artorias eyes fully turning into glass, black dripping even more from his mouth, his entire being suddenly straitens. With one mighty move, he swipes the sword in front, with an intention to keep Ornstein away.  
  
Chills running down Lion's spine: such a terrifying sound rings in his ears, his eyes fixed on the Wolf, how his body tenses and in the next moment he leans forward, hand reaps sword from the ground and swings. The Knight Captain ducks underneath and Artorias sword follows him: the Knight continues on his swing, as it turns into a swirling. But Ornstein doesn't get caught off guard, as he dashes away from the range of hit.   
  
Sword harshly hits the stone, as its owner bents over almost in half, a broken grunt escaping his mouth. He doesn't stand like that for long, as the next moment, he rolls to the side and dashes forward with his sword aiming for Ornstein's chest. The last one quickly moves to the side, watching how his friend passes by. The perfect moment to strike for the Lion Knight.   
  
Only the thing, that _he can't._  
  
Ornstein sees it - Artorias leaves himself open like that _intentionally._ The Wolf Knight never left so many spaces between his attacks: always fought aggressively, putting pressure on his opponents, never giving them much opportunity to attack, only either dodge or block _(the last one is a death sentence, for to stand against his squall of furious hits one must hold a none human strength)._  
  
That only makes it harder.   
  
-Artorias, don't give up on yourself!- Ornstein shouts, taking a few steps back as a broken figure of his friend rises up, relying on the Greatswords, -You fought this thing before, I know you are capable of defeating it!   
  
As an answer, he receives another roar, ( _the Lion can swear on his spear_ ,) that tries to hide behind pretty much human scream of agony and pain, as the body of his _now opponent_ tenses, lowers a bit, only in result to jump up high in the air. It takes Ornstein two moments to realize what does the warrior doing and manage to dodge just in time when the greatswords with monstrous force tears into the stone floor, forming a huge crack in it, pool of the same dark blue and black thing forming underneath.   
  
Now the Lion needs to act.   
  
His gaze falls onto the silver pendant he retrieved from Chester, _that stealing bastard, I'm going to make his life miserable once it all is over,_ a glimmer of hope igniting deep within. It is foolishness, to try to use it when Artorias in such state of a Berserk, fully aware of what's happening, but not be available to prevent anything, foolishness to think that little jewelry can _save_ his friend.  
  
Ornstein doesn't care.   
  
He would accept the blade right through his ribcage, would gladly let his body turn into nothing but pure dust if only he would gain even a miserable opportunity to try and save The Wolf.   
  
Ornstein _almost_ died once for him. He's willing to do it again. 

_Wild roar tore through the sky like a thunder, clapping of powerful wings echoing from afar. Captains eyes fixed on a large shadow in the sky, that have been circling around for quite a time. Ornstein spent almost two months tracking this beast, trying to find its lair. So here it was: far in the distance, a sharp-shaped mountain, around which the fire-breathing monster flew. Once they make sure, that it will breathe no more, the villages to the east and south will be safe and capable of producing more food for the army._  
  
_-I assume thou havest a plan, Commander Ornstein?_  
  
_Ornstein turns his head to the voice, observing how Artorias, (who back then was his personal squire), made his way to the Commander._  
  
_The main camp with around one hundred Silver Knights took its place further down the hill, while Ornstein stood at its top, observing it from underneath the shadows of long branches of the nearby tree. From here Ornstein saw them all like on a palm of his hand: large enough to fit five people tents, smoke rising from fireplaces all around the camp, almost uncatchable smell of cooked food and quite chattering between his soldiers. The main number of forces were further to the north, under command of the Lord's Firstborn, looking for one of the biggest nests around here. If their guesses correct, then there no less, then ten of a dragon kind._

_-Of course. We attack it with the first rays of tomorrow sun. That monster shall taste my lighting and thine greatsword._  
  
_Dragon has been terrorizing nearby lands and villages for some time, burning fields and barns with wheat, stealing cattle. It was odd, for dragons either formed a flock, or a pack, (whatever) or stayed on their own, far from any other of their kin. This one, however..._

_-Thou, Artorias, shall take twenty of our men and prepare to attack, as soon as a dragon hits the ground. I shall make sure, that thou skin will be exposed for thee and thine sword._  
  
_-I will lead the main force, Commander?_  
  
_The man spares Artorias a glance from behind his shoulder, with that strange glint of something like home in golden eyes._  
  
_-Yes. I rely on you, Artorias._  
  
_Not thee , but you. That sudden change adds a much more powerful meaning to these words. _  
  
_Artorias looks over his shoulder, where he used to wear his sword. It was too long and heavy to wear it at his belt, and that way it was easier to bare it in time of need. The squire laughs quietly, as he takes his helmet off and lets the blue hood slip down, reviling to the world short raven hair._  
  
_-Also, - the Knight turns his head to the Commander, only to find him standing to face the Sun that is far, far away, and stare at the golden back, -While we are alone, and there are none of the curious ears around, just call me Ornstein. Consider it not as a command, but rather... a request.  
_

_At these words, his Commander turns to him, with the same warm smile, that (from Artorias own observation) rarely touched his lips, mostly at the time when the Firstborn was around. If to be honest, the squire was a bit jealous of the Lord and their closeness with Captain. He never wished more, than to be able to just simply smile at Ornstein or speak to him as equals. He admired everything in Ornstein: from the very way he spoke, right to the way he moved at the battlefield - with grace and passionate, that no others held. All in the Lion Knight inspired Artorias, and when his first tries with a greatsword started, the only thing that made him keep up, was the clear image of how Ornstein defeated a dragon in one on one combat. The way he dodged, counterattacked and tore stone scales with lighting, it all looked as if he was dancing with death. Artorias felt that he could try to be a dancer, earn some of the experience from simple observation. _  
  
_He is no one, after all. And no one cannot ask the Commander to be taught how to dance._  
  
_So when Lord Ornstein caught him during one of his trainings, Artorias was scared. That he disturbed the Lion, violated the subordination and fell in the eyes of someone, he respected and exalted so much. Yet, all he received was praise and so desired lessons. First trainings were hard - exhausted from the overall trainings, he would come on personal ones, hidden from the eyes of others. Ornstein's hands guided him, his words instilled confidence, eyes followed his every move and noticed every misstep, only to show and teach the right way. After each training his entire body felt sore, all of the muscles responded with ache, but with time skin on his palms was as thick as the dragon scales and got covered in callus, to the point where he stopped feeling any discomfort while fighting or practicing._  
  
_After half a year Commander dedicated him into his personal squire._  
  
_And now Ornstein asked Artorias himself_ _to call him by the first name, with no titles, when there was just them._  
  
_Artorias smiles in return, closing his eyes. -I will. Tho, it will take me so time to... adjusts to this new ability._  
  
_In the morning, with the first rays of the rising sun, three groups, separate from one another, took their places. As soon, as the flaming disc shows from the horizon, loud whistling marks the beginning of the long battle, as one mighty arrow pierced through the sky and stuck into the scales, reaping flesh and breaking bones. A loud and painful roar breaks out of the maw filled with dozens of sharp teeth, as the massive beast tries to stabilize itself in the air, flapping rapidly with the rest of his wings. In the end, it does manage to slow itself and almost take a smooth landing, only to be brought down by a mighty lightning bolt that tears the scales, sending pieces flying to the ground. With another painful growl, the beast finally hits the ground, leaving a deep furrow behind. Now all they need is to keep it pinned to the ground._  
  
_Ornstein can't say what exactly he was doing at the point when he saw how furiously Artorias started to make his way to the Dragon head - maneuvering between Knights, dragon's fire and it claws, periodically crushing his sword onto its now bare flesh. What he does remember is how he threw himself right into the thick of the battle when he noticed how the beast raised its powerful tail with spikes, that could easily tear through any armor if used with enough strength, and the fact that Artorias seems not to notice the upcoming threat._  
  
_Fool._  
  
_He will only get himself killed!_  
  
_The Commander shout out to the squire to retreat, but it appears to be useless: clashing of steel and mighty jaws, the roaring of the dragon and crushing of its feet, with unbelievable strength, that formes little craters whenever it hits, it all hides his voice. Once almost flat field now with huge claw warks, burning fire, few dead bodies, pools of blood and tons of a different kind of roughness is like an obstacle course for Commander, but right before the dangerous tail swings, with its spikes thirsty for blood, he tumbles down both himself and Artorias, using his spear as support. What he doesn't manage to dodge, is how right after a swing, a dragon lashes out, with his jaws open. Ornstein starts to back away too late: sharp teeth break through the armor, tear into flesh and bones. The Lion can't hold a scream of agony, as a dragon drags him away, (he can swear he heard someone calling out for him), almost reaping his arm, with a big enough part of his body, away in a process. WIth last of his strength, he charges his spear with lighting, and when the beast releases him to adjust its death grip, he pierces the spear through its skull, sending all energy from his body into the spear, where it takes a form of lighting. With wild screams of anguish, dragon drops Ornstein to the ground. He falls right onto his wounded shoulder, hearing his bones crackling, feeling how his warm blood flowed into a pool underneath him. He leans onto his right arm, and harshly takes a sitting position, eyeing the beast. It convulses in pain, its paws trying to reach for the spear in its head, as smoke starts to rise from its mouth, that is filling with blood. In the next moment, a dragon breaths fire out, furiously shaking its head, and only a miracle saves The Knight Commander from the wild murderous flames. Tho, even if the flame is not what will take his life away, then bleeding is - that thing put a lot of effort in that bite. But at least they're equal: a dragon roared once again, put all its strength that is left into the last lash, aiming for the wounded commander. He doesn't reach him tho - heavy greatshield hits it right into the head, changing the trajectory of an almost dead dragon. Massive body hits the ground, making it shake violently, a fearsome maw falling near the Lion, a bit open, with smoke rising from it, blood flowing onto the ground, while the paw hits the ground on the other side. Lion observes how the beast goes still, life fading from its body. He releases the breath, he did not realize he held for all this time, as his eyes slide shut._  
  
_They've won yet another battle._  
  
_Maybe he earned a little rest._  
  
_As Artorias rushes to his Captain, he prays to all of the Gods that his сonceived idea_ worked _and that Ornstein wasn't smashed by a large dragon paw or its head. He_ abandoned _his sword, for it is too_ heavy _, and the squire needs to get there as fast as he can. So when he sees his Commander, bleeding, on his knees, yet alive, he can't help, but let a smile touch his lips._  
  
_-Ornstein!- the ravenette warrior shouts, as he closes the distance between them. Anxiety starts to fill him like water when he receives no answer. Hands start to shake a bit and chill runs down his spine, as he watches Ornstein lose his balance and fall to the ground with the loud clacking of metal. The squire feels how his blood turns into the ice from the sight. Without letting his feet take roots, he runs to the Captain's body in an attempt to do something. _  
  
Back then, Ornstein lost a lot of blood and almost got his arm reaped away, just when saving an idiot from a doom. If not for his skill, a dragon would surely tear him apart. If not for Artorias, who shared a bed with Captain, to warm dead cold body with his own heat, he would have frozen to death. It was the same careless fool, that helped him to keep the wound cleaned, as well as helped Lion get into the golden armor every morning when the sun hasn't even risen yet.  
  
After that battle, many things changed between them. In a good way, that is for sure.  
  
And now, after all of what they have come through...  
  
_He will not give up on Artorias that easily!_

Artorias harshly tries to pull the sword away from the ground, grunting aggressively, for all of his attempts keeps on failing. Ornstein decides to act _now_ , as he drops his spear to the ground and leashes forward, gripping onto the shoulders of his friend. With force, he tears the Knight away from the greatsword, pinning him to the ground with all his weight. The Wolf Knight desperately tries to reach for the Captain face. Ornstein suppresses the attempt, by pressing each of his knees to the warrior's shoulders. Artorias screams in wild range when Ornstein's kneecap connects with his left shoulder, but it only plays Captain on hand - maybe the pain will snap his friend out of the Berserk state, and if not, at least it will hold him in place.

While the consumed one underneath him keeps on growling and grunting, the Lion quickly unwraps chainlet from his fingers, but almost drops it, when he feels, how trough space between the metal plates on his leg, tears Artorias fingers, digging nails through the cloth, right into the flesh. The Lion hisses through clenched teeth and ignores jolts of pain, as he forcibly puts the pendant onto Artorias. The man shakes his head, while blood flows from his mouth, and he growls and even tries to bite, like a scared animal, driven into the corner with the only way out is behind the man, that pinned him to the ground. He shakes, trying to get The Lion off, but suddenly freezes, when the last one lowers his face to the Knight.

Artorias eyes widened as if he recognized the man atop of him, and his entire body goes still. Ornstein uses this moment, to close the pendant around the Wolf Knight's neck. Golden eyes meet the glass look of greyish ones, in hope to find familiar warmness of cobalt blue, as fingers tightly clenched around the silver tracery, releasing magick deep inside it. Like a total wave, it washes through both of them, accompanied by a scream of anguish, that escapes Artorias mouth along with the same black slime, turning his scream into coughing. He can see how black flows through the armor, through all of the visible to Ornstein wounds, even though his eyes and nose. The Lion can't tell if that helps Artorias or either kills him, but he tries once again - he feels another wave of light filling his entire being. Artorias, however, doesn't seem to enjoy it - he keeps on screaming, _and that thing still fills his mouth_ , so Ornstein puts force in turning the Wolf Knight's head to the side. -Oh, if you think that you're gonna choke on this and escape my narrations _that_ easily, you better think of another way!- The Lion shouts at the Knight, as a pool of black with blood in it formes almost immediately underneath, but at least he will not _choke_ on it. As Ornstein eyeing the man underneath, he can notice that his eyes _cleared,_ and there is even _blue_ in it once again. The sight of how glassy-look focuses on Ornstein's own eyes, ignite the flame deep within his soul, with power similar to the one, that _range_ and _fury_ born, if not stronger. So it _does_ work.

  
-Orn... Ornstein..?- a broken call falls from Artorias lips, as he tries to distinguish Ornstein's face.  
  
-Who else, do you think, will come here and try to save such a fool like yourself?- he wisecracks in return, in a pointless attempt to lighten the atmosphere. -Now, listen closely: I am going to use the pendant once again, and _it's going_ to hurt like _hell_ , but it's going to help you. And,- he cuts Artorias off before he manages to even open his mouth, -Save the speech of "how I should have ended your suffering", because I'm _still_ your Captain, and you will die only if _I_ say so!  
  
The trick worked, because with _his own_ speech he distracted Artorias from the thoughts of upcoming pain. Yeah, they are soldiers that _should_ be used to pain, but let's be honest - you can never get used to pain. With time, maybe, it stops bothering you that much, but _not completely_.  
  
His fingers once again clench around the pendant, while the fingers of other gently cup soiled cheek as if to give the Wolf at least a bit of comfort. Another wave fills them both, as another scream makes its way up from Artorias throat, echoing around the arena. Ornstein doesn't take his eyes away from the violently shaking _(even with Ornstein in his armor pressing at his chest and (mostly) shoulders)_ warriorunderneath, as the last pieces of _the Abyss_ leave the Knights body with a few much more powerful thrusts: the warrior coughs it out as _the same black and blue_ slime, until there is nothing left.  
  
There is doubt in golden eyes, pupils running all over Artorias face, as he calls for the magick within the pendant once again - it washes over again, and _that's it._ The Wolf no longer screams in agony, neither does he tries to break free. Instead, the ravenette leans into a touch of covered in the golden gauntlet hand, seeking comfort. Broken and heavy breaths of both of them are the only thing that cut through the heavy silence, that fell over them so suddenly. Ornstein waits for a _whole minute_ before he is sure that his friend is _back,_ and he would not try and choke the Captain as soon as he will be free from the weight of the last. 

The Lion slides to the side, armor loudly clacking against the cold stone. Ornstein feels _exhausted_ , not from the fight tho, but rather from all of these feelings inside, each stronger and ruinously than the last one. He looks over at Artorias, as he sits properly, as he calls for him.

-Artorias? You better not be dead.

As an answer, he receives a painful groan, and that is all that takes him to sigh with relief.

-Alright. I'm going to try and heal you. 

He moves to the Knight, taking his gauntlets off in a process. Then, with his now bare hands, he carefully raises the man's higher body, so now he's between his legs, relying on Ornstein with most of his weight, head resting on his stomach. Bare fingers ever so gently go through his hair, as the man begins the story of the Great Healing. Slowly, a magick circle formes around both of them, glooming with warm yellow light, that feels like _home_. Artorias can't help, but relax, and let the miracle fill his tired being and heal most of the wounds. He feels his bones shifting in their rightful place, how his skin and flesh grow together. Blood will be the only remnant of smaller wounds, while larger ones will surely leave some nasty scars. 

Pain leaves most part of his body, yet it is not gone completely - still there, now nothing, but annoying background noise.

-Thank you, - falls from The Wolf's lips, when The Lion goes silent and the warm light is no more.

Ornstein only shushed at the Knight, messaging the skull through the dark hair.

-Save your gratitude for latter. Rest now.

Artorias gladly decides to follow the command, as his eyes slid shut to the humming of the other Knight, that _awfully a lot_ sounds like _a_ _song_. Maybe even a lullaby. No matter, for Artorias falls into wide open arms of the darkness anyway, allowing himself to take a _little nap_ right at the Ornstein's stomach.

_He doesn't seem to mind anyway._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The biggest twist happened. Artorias saved, but there is still a lot of work that needs to be done.
> 
> Leave a comment below! I really want to know your opinion on my story and the way I write it :^)


	6. Talk to me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=axYc-NpvZWg  
> Highly recommend listening to this during your reading.

_Peace_.  
  
As the Sun slowly crawls to the horizon, the wind howls quietly somewhere above them as if singing a strange, yet calming lullaby. Ornstein softly hums his own melody, from a very far away past, that he bore inside for all this time in his heart. Ever soft and gentle, both of these melodies create an absolutely new one: more charming and relaxing. It's accompanied by a heavy, yet much more steady breathing of a tired warrior, resting in the arms of Captain.  
  
Ornstein looms over Artorias, golden eyes observing every detail: veins are not that swollen anymore, skin still pale, tho there is none of that blue and greenish yellow, mark on his face, that crossed his nose, now completely gone - no scar, just dried dark blood with little bits of black. Miracles can only do that much: full recovery will still take its time. The Lion needs to remove damaged armor to have a full picture of the Knight's state.  
  
He needs to bring Mountain with all of the supplies here. Then, prepare everything for the night and only after bandage Artorias.  
  
But maybe he should start with moving Artorias from his stomach without disturbing him.  
  
Which is going to be difficult.  
  
Bare hands crawl under the man's shoulders, fingers spread to the spine, as then, with one swift move Ornstein lifts body a bit, yet enough for him to escape. As he is no more _"trapped",_ he lies the warrior down carefully, almost as if he was made out of thin glass, so easily shatter. In return, the Lion gets a few annoying snorts from his fellow comrade.  
  
It is not the best idea to leave his _injured_ friend and brother in arms like this all alone. Happen it to be, that some Abyss creature or even _human_ would come around, the outcomes _could_ and _will_ be fatal.  
  
And he _just_ has got the Knight back.  
  
Since there is no other way, he looks around the arena, now noticing that in fact, it has two entrances: one that leads to those elevators, other, _Ornstein assumes_ , to the Township. Though it laid a path to the Chasm of The Abyss and considering Artorias state, most importantly, state of his legs and trousers _(armor around his feet seems to be absent, parts of it that are left - hardly recognizable),_ with all of this blackness, could it be that Artorias...  
  
Managed to _traverse_ it?  
  
His eyes fall down to the sleeping figure. After a couple of seconds, Lion's face features relax, his eyes half-closed. -Well, - pause, as he puts gauntlets back on and walks to his spear, footsteps echoing around, -you always wanted yourself a speaking title...- he says to no one in particular, but himself, as he picks it from the ground, - Perhaps Artorias _the Abysswalker_ will suit you well.

It doesn't take Ornstein long to bring both Mountain and Thunder to the Amphitheater along with everything he needs. On his little “ journey”, The Lion stops for a moment to look for his helmet, only to find it _missing_ . _Must be that thieving bastard_ , teeth clench, fury seethes within, _could not keep his hands off it, could he? Oh, if I will see his hat or that grinning mask, this man shall not escape from me._

He was not a Judicator, neither an Executioner. This time, however, Ornstein would gladly take both of these roles and bring punishment upon the guilty one.

As he returns to the Amphitheater, with both Mountain and Thunder at his side, he notices that Artorias is pretty awake and… alarmed? Distressed? Tho, the moment _greyish_ blue eyes find the golden silhouette, the entire posture of the man relaxes. The man shouldn’t actually strain himself like that: sitting, knees close to his chest, leaning on the right arm, for not all of his wounds have been healed, some of them _still_ need treatment. With no second thoughts, Lion dashes to _his_ Knight to prevent him from further movement. In his eyes, there is a relief and… _Other_ emotion. Can't exactly say _which_ one.

-Oh! Ornstein!-, the Wolf fully turns to the Captain, - I, um…- the Knight actually _stammers,_ -You're here.- there are a surprise and fading _doubt_ in the voice.

-Of course I'm here, - Ornstein gently presses his hands to his friend shoulders, carefully trying to lay the man down, - But you shouldn't strain yourself like that. Don't forget about---

Artorias interrupts him, while he allows being laid down to the stone floor, that still appears to be warm: -My injuries, yes. I haven’t, i-it's just, I…-, he takes a deep breath, averting his eyes for a moment. -I thought I… might have done something I--- You _know_.

Wolf's eyes meet with golden eyes that appeared not to be so dull anymore, and he sees it: _understanding_ _and the same strange fear_. Ornstein exhales sharply, moving closer to Artorias, lips pressed in a thin line, brows frowned.

_-I know._

How could he not?

They stay like that for some time, listening to soft whistling of the wind above, quiet breathing of each other and snoring of horses in a short distance. Both of the men mind busy - each with different thoughts, swirling around like a wild hurricane. It appears, that Ornstein has no desire to let his brain be destroyed by them, as he interrupts the silence.

-Alright. Enough of doing absolutely nothing. I must prepare everything for the night and tend your wounds. And _don't_ _even bother with the speech._ You will need your strength for later.

That is the thing in Ornstein, that always amused Artorias: whenever the Wolf _wanted_ to suggest something, that with one hundred percent chance included him taking _high_ risks or any _other_ attempts to _jump higher than his head_ , he would always shut Artorias before he would open his mouth. Maybe throughout those years, the Lion formed a special feeling, that would always tell him when Artorias wanted to play _a hero_.

Artorias rises from his spot a bit, hissing through clenched teeth, once again taking sitting position, eyes fixed on walking to the horses Lion. His Captain stays silent, as he takes two large bags from the Mountain's back. When he returns, Artorias wants to speak, but the moment he spots Ornstein face, words get stuck in his throat. It was… _blank._ As an absolutely new parchment, with _nothing_ at all.

They stay silent for some time. Artorias stays in the same position - one leg close to his chest, right arm resting atop the knee, left one simply hanging at the side. He can feel the pain filling his body like water - from the bottom, starting from his legs, right to the top, where the _phantom_ pain of nonexisting claw mark across his face reveals itself. It is strange and uncomfortable, but the warrior holds his face, not exposing the return of such unwelcome filling to his Commander: the man already stressed himself enough and _certainly_ doesn't need more reasons to.

He watches closely over the Lion: how he spreads some rough, but huge enough to fit two men, cloth of dirty brown color right near him, placing along two bags near the edge. He tells the Knight to settle himself on the handmade lair and take all of his armor off. Artorias silently obeys, as he starts with his gauntlets. Stripes of lather, hidden underneath, didn’t take much damage, unlike most part of the metal. They kept pieces in place and did not allow gauntlets just slip off his arms even after taking such damage. Quite impressing.

Loud clicking of opening fasteners accompanies by a muffled clashing of metal against the thick fabric. To the world being presented two arms: both pale, with well-viewed veins, left one, however, twisted, _aching_ . New grew up muscles echoing with long nagging pain from a deficiency of nutrients. Easily said, his body could not provide new-found tissues and, _now back as one_ , bone with everything they need _that_ soon. And this lack of proper providing of nutrients sometimes stood in a way of providing healthy parts of the body _properly_ . This is also a source of the phantom pain in places of healed injuries - the _body still thinks that there is a wound, thing, that need to be taken care of._ It alarms the brain with _pain_ . _This_ is why miracles were used only in _critical_ situations: sometimes they can do more _harm_ than good.

Next thing that joins gauntlets are his boots, or, to say it right, what is left of them. His feet appear to be not as corrupted, as from the first glance: withered, they covered in something between soot and resin. This _Abyss_ _thing_ appeared to be like an acid, _devouring_ , _consuming_ him, even with the _Covenant_. As he looks back at what happened, he indeed is nothing, but a _fool_. Not only he threw himself right into the darkest of pits, but with him took the _innocent_ soul.

_Sif._

_His loyal friend was still there, under the onslaught of all terrors that the Abyss hid so well in its impenetrable dark._

The Knight shakes his head, putting twisted metal near the gauntlets. He must not give up on the pup. Sif is young, yet smart and spry. Besides, before the Knight lost control over own body, he threw his Greatshield to protect the wolf pup. It will surely keep him safe, until his and Ornstein's arrival.

Speaking of which…

While during a simple task to expose his body from armor, Artorias mind managed to carry him somewhere far, Ornstein did not waste time: he, not without a few failures, retrieved the sword from the steel grip of the stone floor along with a wolf helmet, gathered branches and set up a bonfire not so far away. Well, _almost_ , it just needs to be lit.

-Artorias?

The said one turns his head to the source, eyes meeting with a tired, with a glint of skepticism, look. Ornstein sighs, hand rubbing tiredness off the face.

-Let’s take off your chest piece.

Artorias, almost like a living doll, silently obeys, turning his back to the Knight Captain. The last one falls behind the Wolf with a loud _thud_ , as his hands, gentle as ever, start to work with fasteners on the left side, while Artorias, with a healthy one, moves his left arm forward, revealing more space for the Lion to work with.

-What is on your mind?

Voice, still with the same tiredness, is barely louder, than a whisper, yet with tenderness and care in it. It is not a Commander asking his fellow soldier why his head in the clouds all day, no. It is a close friend, the one, whom you trust your life, asking to tell about all of the thorns that tortures the soul, to show them, asking for permission to ease one's suffering and turmoil.

-Too many things, -the man's simple answer, a bit detachedly, as if he _is not completely_ with Ornstein.

-Artorias, - one of the fasteners cracks open, - _please_. Talk to me.

The Wolf can hear how Lion’s voice almost _broke_ on that plea, which makes his heart sink. Ornstein _worries_ for him, _desires_ to help _(when he doesn't?)_ , but he would not be able if _Artorias_ would not allow.

Another one is open.

- _Forgive me._

His left hand falls to the side, sending a small jolt of pain up to the shoulder, while his right clench around the silver pendant so hard that it _hurts_.

- _For I have availed you nothing._

Chest piece loses its grip around the Knight's rib cage just a bit more.

Silence, with the weight of a mature, fully grown dragon, falls upon them, bringing along the heavy feeling of inconvenience and tension. Artorias, in a desperate attempt to hide shameful tears, that decided to reveal themselves in the corner of his eyes, tries to cover his face with left hand _(on mere wont),_ which only brings him another portion of sweet pain penetrate his entire being. The raven-haired man hisses, in anger pushing his arm away. Voices, so many _sweet_ and _charming_ voices, start to buzz inside his head, which appears to be way too small to fit so many inside. All of them silence any of other thought with their own, _joint_ one.

**_And you dare to call yourself a Knight?_ **

Laugh, so _vivid and living,_ that Artorias starts to think it is _real_.

**_How pathetic, don’t you agree? Here you sit, useless, crying like a little child. Not able to do anything._ **

‘Tis voice is familiar, yet, the Knight can’t point to whom it belongs. Tho, this is not a thing that troubles him, in fact, what causes his heart sink even lower, than it already is, is that it _has a point._  
  
How in the world does he planning on saving Sif from the Abyss, when he couldn’t save _himself?_  
  
He feels a strange heat on his cheeks, his vision blurred, bitterness in a throat that _burns_ . The Wolf cannot hold it anymore: animal fear gave birth to both self-doubt and self-hatred, futility and bewilderment, which could not show themselves until _now,_ when the protecting wall of shock has finally _fallen,_ they surround him, as predators would their prey _._ Realization _of what exactly happened_ hits violently, like a handle of a halberd. Emotions, like a total wave, pull him deeper and deeper, becoming a _maelstrom,_ that kept on gaining momentum until…  
  
Long, strong arms of a _soldier_ wrap around his midsection, just below gruesome gash, bringing closer, pressing against a familiar gold breastplate. Ornstein buries his face in the spot right between shoulder and neck, breath against the exposed skin is a bright contrast, compared to the chill air. Ornstein, as it seems, tries to hide Artorias from _the world_ itself, and such a rare act of _caress_ only _proves_ it. Words, bland and smooth, calm the surface of his sea of emotions, as he slowly, _hesitantly_ squeezes the hand of his Captain, seeking comfort.

-I do not know, what demons you ought to face and fight against. What I _do_ know, is that you _survived_ . The fact that you manage to come through such a long path, to keep on for a _week_ , only shows how _strong_ you are.  
  
Artorias’ own voice, however, is not so steady. It breaks, betraying him, revealing to the world just how _scared_ he is.  
  
-I allowed myself to be _consumed,_ Ornstein. I left Sif there, I-, I did not even-!-  
  
He cannot continue anymore, for this is just so _much-_  
_  
_ -We cannot _always_ win. Not even _Gods_ can. There always will be battles, that we lose, for we are not omnipotent. We have our flaws, our weaknesses. ‘Tis why it is important not to stand against the greater _alone._ I am _here,_ by _your_ side. _We_ will save Sif, put Manus at rest and stop the spread. Together.

A broken sob escapes Wolf’s mouth, but it's not like Artorias tries to hide it anymore. Here, in this Amphitheater, there is just _them_ , who have been with each other throughout the worst and the best, who've seen tears of anguish and joy, stood shoulder to shoulder and marched _together_ through the _war_ . Each of them showed the other _their soul_ : in all its flaws and glory. They did not notice how and when the invisible _bond_ between them started to form, _uniting their hearts and souls,_ but it doesn't really matter anymore. What does - it that it’s _here, strong, as never before._ And Ornstein will gladly share _all_ of the pain of his friend through it.

Artorias releases the sea of emotion through his eyes, as tears with a devastating force start to stream down his face, howling crying reaping through the air. Strong arms do not let go even for a second, protecting and giving such desiring comfort and support.

 _A rather familiar situation._  
  
_-Lord Gwyn,- The Lion Knight states, pushing away a curtain of the Lord’s personal tent, as he steps inside, -I am sorry to interrupt thou conversation with sir Artorias, but I am afraid such occurrence requires your attention._  
  
_Gwyn stops whatever speech he held, tearing gaze from his interlocutor, who appeared to be his right-hand man, rising it to the Lion._  
  
_-Sir Ornstein, with all my respect, but I think that whatever this occurrence is, it can wait for two minutes._  
  
_Artorias starts to feel trapped between two fires: Ornstein literally radiated perseverance and impatience (the Knight does not need to see his face to tell so), while their Lord, well, hurls lightning with own eyes. And him, poor being, was between them._  
  
_It is not a secret that Ornstein could be obstinate when he wanted. And that did not always affect their relationship with Lord of Sunlight in a good way. Lord Gwyn even used to compare the Lion with Firstborn (not in a most pleasant way, surely): “Thou art surely a First Knight of my Son - thou art just as stubborn as he is!” And it wasn’t exactly a lie._  
  
_Ornstein had a lot of traits from the God of War, which was a bit amusing for Artorias. They were almost like… brothers, perhaps? More likely._  
  
_-I am afraid it cannot. It is about your Son._  
  
_Oh._  
  
_Their Lord’s brows rise, painting surprise all over his face. The God then stands from his chair, hands atop the table, impatient written all over his face._  
  
_-Speak then._  
_  
_ _What reaches his ears, however, is not what Artorias expected to hear even in the strangest nightmares, because this is simply cannot be. In blind hopes, Artorias looks at his Captain, then at their Lord, and so go on, while Ornstein keeps on his story: how The Firstborn told him, that he could no longer watch any more of dragon kind die, how asked, if Ornstein would follow him, only to receive a rejection, how Ornstein turned away from him and how he flew away, sitting atop of the feathered wyvern, until he realizes that this is ‘tis is nothing, but a harsh truth._

_God of War_ _,_ _Gwyn Firstborn_ _betrayed them. Allied himself with_ _dragons_ _._  
  
_It even sounds gibberish._  
  
_There is no need to speak of what happened next. Furious their Lord was, scared and confused all of the Knights were. No one could answer why did he leave. In all of this Chaos, the only one did not fall into disarray was Ornstein._  
  
For he fought with his own inside.

 _Artorias can’t say what exactly made him follow Lion’s red plume through a raging crowd, as its bearer practically tried to run away. But whatever it was, it guided him through people, leading him to his Captain._  
  
_Once he managed to catch up with Ornstein, they were on a decent distance away from the main camp. (All of the forces gathered here for it was time for the last strike - into the heart of the biggest nest that ever existed, as it seems. The outcome of the upcoming battle would decide the fate of all of them.) There is an open field in front, above - dark sky with thousands of stars. Only in distance can be heard outraged voices of soldiers. But it all, it doesn’t matter._  
  
_What matters is how the man, who slaughtered dragons in one on one combat, never once backing down, now fell to his knees. Artorias hesitates if he shall leave his Captain or stay, but the moment he hears a broken sob piercing through the air, all of his doubts fade into nothingness. Ever so silently, as the armor allows him to, he walks to the broken figure that suddenly growls._  
  
_-_ **_Leave me alone._ ** **_  
_**  
_The right-hand man doesn’t listen: he stops right in front of the Commander, then slowly falls to his knees, on the same eye level. Another growl - broken, angered, desperate. Ornstein hates it, with every fiber of his shabby, hurt soul. Hates how weak he is, allowing himself to cry in front of the one who looks up for him, for letting the Firstborn into his heart, allowing to tear a piece from it, and take it with him. Hates, how he allowed himself to believe that- maybe, just maybe-, he meant something. Not as a warrior, not a Dragonslayer or a Knight of his Father. He despises his pathetic hopes that maybe after all these years he meant something like a simple, living, breathing being._  
  
_A friend at least._  
_  
_ **_-_ _This is an order! Leave me alone!_**

 ****_He tries to hold onto the last bits of his pride, but when steady hands take away his helmet, the only thing, separating him from the shame, Ornstein realizes he has lost. Hot tears stream down his cheeks, and he looks messy, with bloodshot eyes, shaking lips and intermittent breathing. Golden eyes do not dare to meet with cobalt blue, as they drift to the side, somewhere to the horizon._  
  
_He wants to shout once again, as he pulls all the courage that has left, turns to meet with a warm gaze of the Knight and even takes a breath to do so, only to be interrupted by a long arms pulling him closer, closing around him tightly. Ornstein wants to scream at Artorias, to tell him to let go only that…_  
  
_He doesn’t want him to._

_And so they stay there. Artorias, rubbing the back of his Captain, while the other cries from the pain of betrayal and misery, clinging onto the first as on his dear life._

_-Your tears are not your weakness,- the man suddenly says, as Ornstein now only quietly sobs into the short, dark blue cape (more like a_ _scarf_ _), -they are the proof that there is a living person behind all of this shining golden armor._

_They’ve returned only after half an hour or so into the camp._

They sat like this until there are _no more_ tears to share. Artorias, fully exhausted from overwhelming and devastating perturbation, pressed his wet from salty waterfalls cheek against Knight-Commander temple, lips slightly apart.  
  
_-_ Feeling better?  
  
Artorias smiles through an odd feeling of tranquility, and Ornstein hears that smile in a voice: -Yes, I do. Thank you. _For not giving up on me_.  
  
A few more seconds pass before they part away from each other. Artorias feels a bit disappointed, now that the warmness from Ornstein’s body is gone, but do not demonstrate it.  
  
-You would’ve done the same, ‘tis is for sure. Now, let me see your wounds.  
  
Finally, the chest piece joins other parts of armor to the Knights’ right. There is thin, grey tunic underneath. At least, _it’s supposed_ to be. All ripped, soaked in blood, it is more of a rag, rather than clothing. With no further hesitations, the Lion reaps it away, exposing the skin. After throwing it to the side, he moves one of the bags closer, opening in, taking out some clean cloth, a bottle of water and a moss serum _(those were made by healers at the castle from the extract of red and purple blooming moss, sometimes with mossfruit juice),_ surgical needle, thread and bandages. Then, Ornstein puts his gauntlets aside.  
  
_-_ Here. - the Lion holds out a thick lather piece, which Artorias gladly accepts by putting it between his teeth.  
  
Ornstein purs a bit of water onto the cloth, as he begins to carefully rub all of the blood and the Abyss _thing_ away. His back is not in such a bad state as his front tho - there are no wounds that need treatment. As the Lion finishes cleaning Artorias’ back, he stands up, throwing the dirty cloth to ripped tunic. Then, he comes to Artorias front, while he starts to change his position: from leaning forward, using his knee as support to leaning backward, right arm as support, legs stretch forward. Ornstein sits between them, a new wet cloth in his hand. Artorias’ now _grey_ eyes meet with golden, and he _smiles_ because he wants to. The Lion only humpfs in return but _smiles as well,_ as he starts to wash the dried blood away from his chest. He cleans the stomach, carefully moves around the ribs (Artorias says that it tickles) and the gruesome gash across his chest. Then he takes a new cloth, cleans the wound as careful as it’s possible, yet there is still unpleasant hissing from his comrade. As soon as the wound is clean, he takes the needle and thread. A wound itself is not that critical, but it can start bleeding again. So Ornstein opens a bottle of moss serum and abundantly lubricates the thread with it.  
  
-Now, this is where it’s gonna hurt,- the Lion warns, twisting a needle between fingers. -The first stitch is the most painful, so I’ll do it on count three.  
  
The Wolf Knight only sighs, mentally preparing himself for the upcoming pain, as Ornstein starts to count: -One. Two.-  
  
The moment of betrayal - the needle swiftly pierce through the skin, causing Artorias hiss irritably. Only after the Lion finishes his counting, sly smile on his face: -Three.

 _-Dirty liar. -_ childishly rebukes Artorias, clenching onto the leather piece with all his force.

-It’s when it comes to _three_ you panic the most, - remarks Ornstein, without taking golden eyes away from the wound, -remember the first time _you_ had to stitch me?  
  
Artorias only dryly laughs in returns, trying to keep his chest at still as possible: -Ah, yes. We went on _our_ first dragon hunt, and, because of my negligence, you had to save me from its claws. I felt so scared that you might bleed to death, that I could not hold the needle still. I still remember how terrified _you_ looked, when with my shaking hands I actually _tried_ to stitch you.  
  
While Artorias was absorbed in memories, Ornstein manages to make it to one-third of the wound.

-And then you said, that if I’ll try, then you would lose _more_ blood than you already had. You know, it _didn’t help at all._

The Wolf earns a sweet laugh from the Captain, which fills his being with a warm feeling, that goes right from _the heart_.

-By the way, - Ornstein hums in acknowledgment, -How in the world did you know, that saying _“Imagine that I am one of these dolls. It is not that hard to stitch them up”_ would actually help me?

Ornstein is almost done with the wound when he speaks: -I remembered how we stayed in a little village in the middle of a forest. It was not for long, I-, uh, I think we were returning from the haunt, maybe? Anyway, on our stay, on one day, you saw a girl crying, because of her doll. A dog ripped its arm or something like that.  
  
-Oh, I remember her. Her name… _Emily,_ perhaps?  
  
-Yes. While _you thought_ I wasn’t looking, you sew the arm in its rightful place. When I asked you, where did you learn how to do it, you told me about two of your sisters and how you _always_ had to fix their dolls, whenever something wrong happened to them.  
  
-You _actually_ remembered?

Ornstein nods, as he ties a knot at the end. He puts the needle away, as he picks a bandage.

-Your stitches were so good it was _hard to get rid of them_ when my wounds healed enough.

Artorias leans forward not to lose his balance when he raises his left arm with his right to provide Ornstein convenience for smearing the wound with the moss serum and bandaging him.  
  
As there is even less space between them now, Artorias takes advantage of it, to _stare_ at the Knight-Captain without a twinge of conscience. Strands of once fire-burning hair fall to the side of the pale-skinned face, dense brows frowned, eyes, that _used to be gold, with a bronze ring around pupils,_ now dimed, filled with concern. There are two rough scars - a little reminder of how you _should not_ try to stop a horse dead in its tracks _(The Lion fell off it trying to perform it and that is where he gained them),_ turned up nose, a beard that assumes to be _shortly_ boxed _(I left for one week and you already started to forget to keep it that way!)_ , and _lips,_ crossed with a short scar from The Wolf. It was _an accident,_ really, Artorias just didn’t calculate how far does he need to stretch his arm so the blade _would not_ harm Ornstein.

But now, as he looked at them an absolutely unexpected question pops in his mind.

_I wonder, how would he react if I am to kiss him?_

**_Wait._ ** **_  
_** **_  
_** -And it’s done.- proudly announces the Lion, finishing the tight knot at Artorias’ side. Ornstein straightens himself, meeting Wolf’s stare.

-What? Is it something on my face?  
  
-Nah, - the Wolf backs away, putting some space between the two, -You’re just beautiful.

 _Simple_ words so _easily_ said. Yet, they are the cause of Ornstein’s face conversion into a tomato: it is as red as a plume on his helmet, if not redder. Artorias can’t help but laugh, for he finds it _absolutely adorable._

 _-_ I am-, uh-, appreciate it?- The Lion _stammers_ , which brings only more of that strange, but not unpleasant warmth inside of the Wolf. -You know, you-, um-, beautiful _too_.

This is the moment where both of them start to laugh at how awkward Artorias turned to be: the same bright blush covers his entire face. They laugh because it’s _stupid_ and they _know_ it, and they act like _virgins_ when they are two _grown men_ and…

_Who cares._

_Not them,_ that is for _sure_ , as Ornstein lits the bonfire and they spent a few hours just _talking_.


	7. What is between.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ciaran goes after her Captain with unexpected help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the Dancing and the Dreaming from HTTYD 2 - a very lovely song, I've used in this chapter. Please, consider listening to it.

After humans have left to wherever their destination is, Ciaran returned to the Castle through the tunnel. It is quiet here, even quieter than before: frozen in time place with no living soul left. Such dead silence oppresses young _(at least compared to sir Artorias and Lord Ornstein)_ woman. The absolute opposite of Anor Londo, a place that was never quite - no matter was it day or night, it stayed like that even after the Gods have left. Not as noisy as before, certainly, but leastways not so…  
  
_Abandoned._  
_  
_ The assassin doesn't have any troubles to walk to the little servant's room in which she stayed - her eyes are well trained to orientate even when there are no sources of light, aside from the milky moon, which light flows through thin glass. As she entrance, the first thing she does is lighting a small candle and so the darkness backs away, presenting room's surroundings: average bed with modest grey blanket and bedspread, with a lot of patches _(probably handmade)_ , two nightstands on each side, cupboard too small to fit way too many clothes, and, _unexpectedly_ , a _writing_ desk - something that mere servants rarely possessed, for most do not even know how to _write_ in the first place. Ones who did - in most of the times did is so _terrible_ , that preferred not to do it _at all_. Sparing it her last glance, she picks a sack with her belongings from the nightstand, checks, if everything is truly in there and only afterward decides to pay a visit to Elizabeth.

Leafs and branches softly crunch underneath little feet of the Assassin, as she walks through the garden. It is indeed a lovely place - if for a moment you’ll allow yourself to forget about all of these things behind the walls of the Castle, inside which a garden hides. Light blue eyes follow the small path, dangling between the trees. There are only a few meters that separate her and the glade, where the Mushroom Lady settled down when Ciaran stops dead in her tracks: there is her voice, and other - _a different one._ And there is light in such darkness _(a night it is after all)_ \- _a bonfire?_ It wasn’t there before. She clearly remembers that.

  
-I am afraid this is how it is, my dear.- a deep sigh and rustle of clothes, whoever it is, they _move_ . -Only princess Dusk can help thee to return from where thou camest.  
  
Ciaran looks out from behind a tree. She is met with a wide back of a _human_ , wearing a dark brown coat with two bags - one of them on a belt, small, the other on the shoulder strap, much larger. She also spots the _estus flask_ , to their right, on the belt, something that only the _cursed, or, undead_ possessed. Underneath the coat - some kind of a dress, perhaps? Or a robe of a scarlet color. Its hem heavily damaged, all covered in dirt and… _blood?_ It is hard to tell due to the color of the skirt. Underneath - almost bare feet, swathed in dirty bandages. Assassin cannot see one’s hands, but they are… leaning onto something. A weapon?  
  
-But, no matter how sad it is, she is not much of a help to thee. Even tho sir Artorias _promised_ to return her, I highly doubt that the Knight would be able to stand against the Dark. For…  
  
_-For a soul with no darkness cannot resist it_ , yes, I am well aware. However, as much as I know, both of them managed to stop the spread, that is, _resist_ the Abyss itself.  
  
_What? What is the meaning of this?_  
_  
_ Elizabeth sounds surprised, as she asks the person _(Ciaran could not tell if this was a man or woman - the voice of thee was… something in between)_ : -Both, thou sayest?

- _Sir Artorias and Lord Ornstein._

_What in the name of Gwyn it all mean? What are they speaking about?! How did they- did Elizabeth told them?_

Person straightens themselves, putting on their back a _grass crest shield (most of these were borrowed by Alvina's hunters, for strange reasons. The grey cat told something in the nature of how it allows to fight or chase intruders longer)_ , and then take in their hands a _Black Knight Sword_ . Wherever they took _it_ from, they didn’t seem to be bothered by its weight _at all_.

-If thou art truly from the upcoming time, then there is still hope. Thou shouldst try and catch up with Lord Ornstein - thou couldst not went far. 

The figure starts to move - at the same moment Ciaran lurks behind the tree - only to be stopped by Mushroom Lady: -But before, take some of my mushrooms.  
  
She hears steps, then quite clanging of metal and the cursed one indeed reaps a few, as the Godmother continues: -I hope thou will findest them use on thou journey.  
  
The undead bows to the kind Lady, and braces themselves before another _“mission”_ of their, filled with dozens and more deaths, when Ciaran finally steps from the shadows. Whatever they talked about, from whatever place this _undead_ was, if they really desire to catch up with Captain and help to retrieve the Princess _(or her cold dead body)_ , and, for Flame's sake, she needs some _explanations!_

-Ah, milady Ciaran,- the mushroom looks over the undead shoulder when they step away, allowing the woman to look at her properly. -We did not know thou art here.

-What is the meaning of all of this? Who art thou? Why thou art here? And most importantly, what is this was thine talk about my fellow comrade and our Knight-Captain?

Ciaran cannot read the face of the undead, for it is hidden underneath a metal crown mask. She did not see anything similar to it before - almost flat, with narrow tight holes for eyes and nostrils, made out of dark metal. The rest - hidden underneath the scarlet hood. This person, whoever they are, have thine _secrets_ and desires to keep ‘em that way.

-Well, as thou can see, this person is-, Elizabeth starts, only to be interrupted by the cursed one, as they raise their hand in a gesture for silence.

-I am well capable of speaking for myself, Elizabeth.

The person then stretches their left leg forward, bowing, their right hand with strange accuracy moving to their left part of a chest, lying atop. Even tho it was _dueling bow_ , at least they have some manners.

-My name is _Khaled_ , - the man starts, straightening himself, -And here I am by a fate cruel design, as it seems.

-And how is this so?

The man laughs, -Now on my own will am I here. And now, as i suppose, in order to return from where I came I need to save princess Dusk.

Ciaran crosses her arms atop her chest: -And so thou hope to catch up with my Captain in order to unite powers?

-And thou, can I assume, desirest to do the same?

Ciaran is taken aback by the sudden suggestion but doesn't show it to _Khaled_ . She feels it, there is no need for her to see his face, hidden behind dark metal. His eyes, they _burn_ through, trying _to read_ her.

-Thou assumedst right.

-So, thou art leaving?

Only now the two remember that there is not just them. Ciaran looks over the man's shoulder to Elizabeth. In deep thought, she appears to be. The assassin walks from the undead, closing the distance.

-Mine duty was to watch over survivors. Now, they have left. But I can assure thee, all of them are save in hands of the one to lead.

Elizabeth spares the undead a look, as she speaks: -Berna, was it her name? A brave and skillful warrior she is. They all will be safer with her, then if they stayed here.

A deep sigh falls from the mushroom lips: -Farewell then. I wish thee luck. And may the Flame lit thine way through the Abyss.

The exact same word she told Artorias before his leave.

As Ciaran turns her back to Elizabeth, her motion swift, yet with a strange grace. Her eyes watch over the human leaning on the nearby tree, his head averted to the side. He seems to _feel_ the Assassin’s stare, as he sharply turns the head to her, staring in return.

-We both can gain a benefit from cooperating with each other, do not thou think?- he speaks, rising from the tree, hand moving forward for a shake.

Ciaran rises a brow underneath her mask, as she watches, how the undead stretches their hand forward for a handshake. A gesture of… good intentions?

She doesn't trust them. _Humans,_ they _must not be_. However…

-We may consider allies for now, - the Assassin says, moving the hand back to its owner, -But for I shall watch _closely_ over thee.

-Fair enough,- the warrior spares a look over his shoulder to the Mushroom Lady, as then they shrug their shoulder, adjusting the grip on the sword. -Shall we go then?

-I have a horse waiting in a stable. It can fit two of us.

 _Shadowmere_ , just like Thunder and Mountain, was a specific breed, even tho he was much smaller than his brothers. Although he was a much faster and less perceptible - dark brown coat, black mane, slender, _nearly a normal horse_. Ideal for someone like Ciaran - easy to lost, hard to catch up with. He saved her once already - from a mission that didn’t end well and she needed to retreat as fast as possible. A horse practically pulled out her out of the deepest mess yet made and carried away far from that damned city.

-So horses _do_ exist in these forgotten lands?-

The _surprise_ in the voice of his makes Ciaran doubt her decision on allying with this cursed human, as the said cursed eyes Shadowmere from the scruff to the hooves.

-What’s so surprisest thee? Has thou never saw a horse before?- she mocks while climbing her fellow friend.

-Not in my time, that is.- parries the undead, joining woman on her horse, swords putting behind _(was there some kind of mounts?)_. -Not even a single corpse.

-Thou time? Is this what Elizabeth meant?- the Assassin asks, as she gently spurs the horse. With a quick snort, it starts to move lazily out of the stable.

-I am afraid so.

As Shadowmere slowly starts to gain speed, taking them out of the Castle Ciaran wonders if this man has not gone hollow already and if it was the right decision to allow them to ride with her. With them _behind_ her. With such easy access to her neck and back, so easily _killed_ in one blow.

-How did thou camest to such a conclusion?

The undead seems to hesitate for a moment as if pondering over their answer. This place was cursed, indeed - if this man was no hollow if thine theory is correct if thou art _truly_ from the future - what in a world was Oolacile? A magnet to all possible worst things? If this person managed slipped through all the barriers, then the fabric of _time itself_ was damaged. Could that be the effect of the Abyss? Or perhaps… A consequence of _the fading Flame_?

-Elizabeth told me, that my presence feels different than any other - as if I do not belong _here._ As well as… I heard of this. Legends and stories of brave Abysswalker and Dragonslayer, with whom help he traversed the Abyss, that settled deep underneath Oolacile.

-Tell me everything about it. - The woman almost _demands_ , sparing a person behind a glance. Even though the mask Khaled can feel it: suspicion, and, perhaps despise.

The undead clears his throat, hands tightly gripping onto the saddle.

-I’ve heard this story from Master, to whom I gladly serve. He told me a tale about how humans, absorbed by their greed and a blind desire for power disturbed the grave of the Primeval Man - Manus, who later was called _Father Of the Abyss_ . For such sinister action, they have been punished: the beast unleashed the Darkness upon them, that consumed them and reviled their _true_ identity. However, the ones that have nothing to do with it asked for help - and that help has been granted to them by the Wolf Knight. He traveled to the Abyss, faced its demons. But even such warrior as him could not stand against it alone, and soon the Lion Knight joined his side. Together, side by side, they stopped the spread and put Father at rest.

Buildings pass for both of them as a blur, bloatheads laugh in their backs, as they rush through the streets, maneuvering between destroyed houses and huge cracks in the ground. The undead tries to hold themselves in one place, as they loom, pressing their chaste against the woman’s back. They feel how she tenses but remains silents, as the sight of a ruined town changes onto tall trees and short grass. They’re outside of the town _already_ , and the undead can’t help but sneer underneath the crown mask: if not for this _Lady Ciaran_ it would’ve taken him quite a time to reach the end of the city and the price for it a bunch of painful deaths.

However, things can’t be _that_ easy, can they?

-On the right!- the warrior shouts, baring their sword. With left hand holding an iron grip upon the saddle, the man swings their sword with right one, reflecting the upcoming stab from the hayfork and knocking over the _leaving bush_ . Only now the riders notice _how many_ there are chasing them and… _are these stone golems?!_

-I don’t want to hurry thee, but they want to make _living pancakes_ out of us!- the undead shouts, watching how one of the golems rises its huge hammer and with an _intimidating_ force hits the ground with it that it _shakes_ underneath, and both of them, even atop of the horse can _clearly_ feel it.

-What? Art thou _afraid_ of some slow golems?- the assassin manages to _mock_ the undead, as they suddenly take a sharp turn to the left. Right into the place, where they supposed to be, smashes another huge hammer of theirs.

Another swing throws another one of this man-bushes away, as in the distance can be seen… some kind of a… building? In the middle of a forest?!

-There!- they point to that odd stone thing with a tip of their sword.

Shadowmere dashes to that place, knocking away some of these _gardeners with hella big_ scissors _(probably will cause blood loss, in his mind, adds the undead)_ and, as the final touch, kicking one with his front hooves right in the _head (conveniently short they were),_ as he stops near the strange construction. The undead immediately slides from the horse, fingers twist around the handle of his sword, head turning to the left, then to the right. The golems seem to be way too far, and for these _(the cursed one spares a dead gardener a look from above, as it lays flat)_ things, there are a few, running to them.

-Thou shalt examine the building. I’ll take care of them.

As Ciaran swiftly jumps off the Shadowmere, eyeing the running bushes, the Undead re-adjusts their grip, now taking a stance. The woman takes the horse by its reins, stepping inside.

-Such a Knight in Shining Armor, - She laughs, stopping at the entrance, fully turning to the _foolish human_ , -Saving a poor girl from some mad plants with hayforks. What would I do without thee.- Clear mocking in the woman’s voice doesn’t affect warrior anyhow - he stays silent and still, like a statue. Ciaran only rolls her eyes underneath her mask, leading Shadowmere further. This place is something of an elevator, perhaps? She heard of these elevators: a few led right to the excavations of the Tomb. So without a second thought, she presses a grey panel in the floor, as bright blue light starts to glow underneath, lightning everything around it, sending darkness away, accompanied by a gentle… _melody?_

The sounds outside, however, do not stand even close to being _gentle_.

The crunching of branches, the rustling of leaves, clanging of metal and _not very appropriate_ words - it all creates a _battle_ _symphony_.

Artorias used to tell her a lot about this kind of music, tho his one was more powerful: _cries of pain, the crackling of a fire, clapping of fearsome wings and roaring of dragons._ The Wolf Knight used to say, that _sometimes_ , closing his eyes in searchings of sleep and open them afterward, he would find himself there, surrounded by _fire, dead bodies_ of both Knights and Dragons with _pools_ of blood underneath, clashing of steel and ground-shaking roars around, Gough’s archers' mighty arrows piercing into the ground or through stone scales, and both ground and sky will be the same color: of terrifying dragon’s fire-breath and his blood, that his still _beating_ heart pumped and of the so _familiar_ plume looming somewhere far, that he followed without seconds thoughts _anywhere_ . At this point, the nightmare stopped appearing as one, for as soon as he would reach the bearer of the famous helmet, _the end_ will be marked.

 _The war is over_.

Artorias told her everything about that day, the day of which he had nightmares _(or not really)_ , the day when _dragons_ were _no more_. In the most detailed picture he could paint with his words. Of how through the smoke and fading fire he found Ornstein, standing atop of the massive beast with swords, great arrows and Ornstein’s own spear sticking out of its mangled body, eyes gouged out, some fangs broken, tail, cut off, lying atop, near the feet of his Captain, smoke rising from its maw. He looked up for Ornstein, bright sun right behind him, as he faced it.

_-Thou then said, that if this is all is just a dream, that they do not want to wake up. Thou then asked me, if I thought the same._

_-And what did thou toldst our Commander?_

_-”Then we must have the same dream”._

-Art thou dreaming?

Ciaran snaps out of depths of the mind, head sharply turning to her companion. Even tho no one, aside from her, couldn’t tell, she frowned, pulling Shadowmere along with her to the platform which arrival the Assassin _simply didn’t notice_.

_-I am surprised to see thou art still alive._

As if Khaled haven’t spoken before. As if he just arrived. The undead ignores clear mocking in the voice of his _forced ally_ , as he steps on the platform and with another soft…. _whistle?_ it starts to move.

-I suggest we would not speak to thine comrades _of where_ I came. I highly doubt that _thou_ believest in my words, and so for now on I am one of these _people_. The one desiring to help and save Princess.

Ciaran quietly shakes her head in a sign of agreement, when the elevator finally stops. As they walk out, to their eyes presented and absolutely majestic view: the night, like a huge blanket covered the entire world, with thousands of stars shining so far away, nothing but a white glooming dots, as if white paint was splatter all over the dark coverlet by some mad artist. It is dark in here, however, there is some kind of a… lanterns, perhaps? These things look like metal flowers with little orbs of lighting floating in the center. The is three ways they can go: a small path leading even lower than they already are _(it is ravine as far as both can tell),_ two more elevators and path through the Amphitheater.

-Thou should check the elevators on the other side. I shall see what’s in Amphitheater.- Not suggestions, not even a request, a _command_. The Undead shrugs his shoulder, only humphing in return. Once they cross a little bridge, they immediately separate, each heading in their way.

It’s when she’s at the entrance she starts to slow, steps silent as ever. The _crackling of a bonfire,_ light from it that became visible after a few feet from the bridge and _so adored_ by her _laugh._

_He’s alive._

**_Alive!_ **

Right before she dashes to where her comrades are, the woman stops herself dead in tracks when she catches unto the words in the air.

_-You have been so ashamed by my stupid suggestion back then, I am telling you, your face was the color of your plume!_

Eavesdropping on her Captain and fellow comrade is a harsh violation of the subordination and _simply_ not the right thing to do, but Ciaran can’t help it, as he leans to the wall, her back pressed tightly against it, as she strains her hearing senses.

_-Artorias, we were the only male couple on that damned feast. Even tho it was only at the beginning, still- I felt like a fool._

_Since when did they both start to address each other by “you”. He never- even when_ _alone_ _\- addressed to her by “you”. And what fest? Ciaran never heard- Artorias never told her. _

_-Yet you agreed on it! Besides, our Lord said it themselves: they didn’t care who will get the honor to be your partner, as long as you get one._

Ciaran slightly picks from the corner, eyeing two men in the distance: they sit on some kind of cloth, the bonfire near, them close to one another- only due to the Captain’s bright _(even after so many years)_ armor the woman can tell who is who.

_-Do you still remember the song?_

_-Artorias, do not---_

And then there is a gentle whistling coming from their direction, ever so soft and gentle, sounding awfully like _a melody,_ as then the man starts to _sing_ , a bit out of key, yet still…

_Beautiful._

_-I'll swim and sale on savage seas..._  
_With ne'er fear of drowning..._  
_And gladly ride the waves of life..._  
If you would marry me…

_Is he serious tho?_

_-Artorias, you can’t be---_

_-Nor scorching sun, nor freezing cold..._

_Will stop me on my journey..._ _  
_ _If you will promise me your heart…_

The Knight continues anyway, as he rises from his spot, in his armor _(damaged, must the Assassin notice)_ slowly stretching his _right_ arm forward, as if suggesting his help to get their Captain up.

_-And love…?_

She hears a heavy sigh and then _clashing_ of armor, as the Dragonslayer rises from his spot.

 _-And... love me for eternity._ \- Finishes the Knight-Captain, with a played complaint in his voice, yet it still comes out as a singing. Ornstein continues, even tho he seems to be unsure in what he's doing.

 _-My dearest one, my darling dear,_  
_Your mighty words astounded me,_  
_But I've no need of mighty deeds_  
When I feel your arms around me!  
  
The more Ornstein sings, the more steady his voice gets, the more his owner sure in the rightness of this rather silly action. They are Nobel Knights, one of them bearing a greatsword and shield that almost the same height as their owner, while the other bears the power of lighting inside of him and this is--- this is childish. They are grown men-- not some teenagers---

 _-But I will bring you rings of gold!_ \- with that Artorias pulls Ornstein closer, earning a sweet and charming laugh from the commander, as then the Wolf takes him by the hand and starts to swirl around the bearer of the golden armor, as he continues: _-I'd even sing you poetry!_

  
_-Oh, please, Artorias..._  
  
_-And I would keep you from all harm,_  
  
_-It seems that it is I who should keep you from harm._  
  
_-If you would stay beside me!_  
  
As Ornstein takes the lead, he stops Artorias in his swirling and lays his right hand on Wolf's hip, left onto the shoulder. Like that they start to move in the way, that seems like a rough and more passionate waltz.  
  
_-I have no use for rings of gold,_  
_I care nor for your poetry!_  
_I only want your hand to hold,_  
  
The Lion hears that clear and living laugh that echoes around the arena, feels the Knight's hand atop of his own shoulder, as the Wolf Knight continues to sing with him, and they slowed down a bit. Artorias is _still_ injured, and they shouldn't forget about that.  
  
_-I only want you near me!_  
_To laugh, to kiss, to sweetly hold,_  
_For the dancing and the dreaming!_  
_Through all life sorrows and delights,_  
_I'll keep your laugh inside me!_  
  
In that simple moment, where it's just two of them, the entire worlds fade. All that Ornstein sees - is a laughing face and warmth, life inside blue eyes. All that Artorias sees - once dull eyes burning again, flickering in rays of setting sun and happiness in them.  
  
_Something he didn't see in quite a time._  
  
_-I'll swim and sale on savage sees,_  
_With ne'er fear of drowning!_  
  
The song from tender and soft turned to be much faster and with more passion. Artorias doesn't notice that Ornstein's hands changed their position until he picks him up and swirls with him. The action makes both of them almost fall and Artorias can't help but laugh, while Ornstein continues their song. He does manage to catch up with him at the end.  
  
_-And gladly ride the waves of life,_  
_If you would marry me!_

Artorias pulls the last sound for some time, accompanied by the Captain laugh and that makes his heart beat faster for he never heard anything more beautiful. They ended up close to each other, a bit out of breath, foreheads pressed against one another. Artorias observes Captain's face: how his eyelashes shake, how his lips are slightly apart and that scar that crosses them, how little droplets of sweat formed near his temples. Artorias feels exhausted and in need of rest, but it can wait a bit longer.

Ciaran, watching over them from the shadows, feel how heart sink at that very moment deep into her stomach. _How_ they acted with each other, _the song itself_ , the way _Artorias, her dear Artorias, looked_ at their _Captain_.

 _Friends do not look at each other like that_.

-Quite an interesting picture-, Ciaran harshly turns her head to the owner of so sudden appeared whisper.

- _Hush_.

-Hiding from _thine_ comrades to _eavesdrop_ on them? - there is a hidden _scoffing_ grin in the voice of the Undead, as he leans to the opposite wall, right in front of Ciaran.

-’ _Tis none of thine business._

Man only humphs, turning his head to the side, arms crossed atop his chest, the sword behind the back, familiar weight pressing onto it.

The woman picks from the corner once again, closely observing the duo, feeling a bitter lump in her throat. Could that be that they were… _something more?_ If so, _for how long?_ A mouth? A year? _Thousand of years?_ How it comes that she _never_ noticed _anything_ peculiar?! Ciaran doesn’t notice when her hands start to shake, for _Artorias would’ve told. We are friends. He would’ve told, I would’ve known--- Maybe I’m just seeing things that aren’t there?_

-Milady Ciaran,- Khaled suddenly addresses, -allow me to give you a little advice. Sometimes, it’s better to just _accept._ Even if you _do not_ understand it.

-Let’s go.- She sharply cuts the man off, tearing herself away from the wall and finally revealing herself from the shadows, stepping into the light of the dancing flames, leading Shadowmere by the rains, the Undead following closely after.

-Ciaran!- It’s _Artorias_ to notice her first, as he meets her halfway with the same warm smile -It’s good to see that thou art alright. And… The man, I’m afraid, I do not know yet.

-Lord’s Blade Ciaran, - Ornstein acknowledges, his face turning into a _stone_ , as he gazes at her from above, -with a human at thine side, _disobeying_ my orders, as I see.

-I fulfilled my order, Captain. Humans have left Oolacile, aside from the man over there, - the woman slightly turns to the side, pointing at the cursed one, -and left to build themselves a new home. And there is no need to guard an empty castle. - Voice cold and steady, showing no of her _previous feelings._ Artorias looks to Ornstein, then at their _(at last his)_ friend, then meeting with, _The Wolf Knight supposes_ , the gaze of a human.

Captain exhales, rubbing the bridge of a nose, tired expression painted on his face.

-Then, I assume, we’ve _got a lot to discuss._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will take a break after this chapter. It doesn't mean I'm abandoning this fic, I'm taking some time off to gain more inspiration. I want all of you the have the greatest chapters I can offer - not squeeze them out of my brain forcibly, making them look worse compared to others. Hope you'll understand.
> 
> The break will not take a long time. UwU
> 
> You can follow me on Tumblr: https://cryindollhouse.tumblr.com/


	8. Catching up and the story of old time.

-Before all of us will come to any discussion of further actions,- Ornstein is the first one to start, while the Undead with, perhaps,  _ relief,  _ falls near the bonfire, legs crossed, the sword pressed to his chest now  _ (why does he moves it that often?) _ , Ciaran with her own elegance sits on her knees, Artorias falling a bit further to her right, on the same cloth spread across the stone floor, - I wish to hear from Lord’s Blade and,- he spares the warrior a glance, waiting for their name, as Khaled slightly raises his head, words cold, as he speaks: -Khaled,- afterward, Ornstein continues, - _ Khaled _ , what  _ exactly  _ happened in Oolacile.

Unlike the others, the Lion stands tall, in front of all three, eyeing each of them, tho he feels discomfort and odd feeling off being _naked_ without his helmet that he _hopes_ to retrieve soon. Now only is it an important part of his armor, but a shield for his emotions he kept hidden. It is easier to hide behind the stone-cold golden metal, and here, even the _Undead_ hid thine face behind the metal. The said man then turns thine head a bit to Ciaran, before taking their _estus_ _flask_ and putting in right into the fire.

-Thou seest, - Ciaran starts, eyes focused on flickering flames, dancing their simple, yet charming dance, -the barrier around the Castle will fall, soon or late, and there were a lot of injured, women, that never held anything more dangerous than a kitchen knife and children. Berna, their new Guard Captain, decided to leave the city through some old tunnel. It leads outside the city and large enough to fit a horse. And Khaled…- the Assassin goes silent, as light blue eyes travel to the warrior’s form, as he continues: -I do not wish to go with them. My only desire - to find princess Dusk.

_ So I could return to my mission _ .

-My Lord,- Ciaran addresses to Ornstein, as golden eyes burn holes in a bit cracked cyclops mask, -These people no longer need our protection.  _ Please _ , allow me to…

She shut her mouth when The Lion Knight rises his hand in a gesture of silence. He now turns his head to Khaled, who appeared to be not interested in conversation.

-I assume thou must know where thine kind have left to?

As with no hesitations, the warrior picks the flask out of the fire, now  _ full  _ with softly glowing yellow liquid, he answers without rising thine head, -Thine assume is not correct. I have no idea where their destination lays.

_ Suspicious _ .

-How is so?

-Simple. I can care less about it. All that matter is that Princess Dusk is  _ still _ in hands of that…  _ beast. _

_ -I don’t seem to remember thee _ .- ever so suddenly Artorias speaks out. When Ciaran told them, that Khaled is one of the survivors, for a moment he thought that maybe he hit his head somewhere in Chasm, maybe he just didn’t notice,  _ maybe _ …

But this is how it is. Artorias  _ haven’t _ seen this man before. He would’ve remembered: a man, wearing no armor but some kind of a scarlet robe with  _ Grass Crest Shield,  _ the ones that were borrowed  _ only _ in the Darkroot Garden and with not a regular sword,  _ but a Black Knight’s one _ . Out of so many Knights and mere folk, he can swear on his Greatsword,  _ he would’ve remembered that person _ .

That also makes Ornstein glance from Artorias to the sitting Undead, suspicions rising in Lion, as his hand reaches for the spear lying just in few inches away from his feet.  _ Just in case _ .

-No surprise,- the man doesn’t even  _ flinch _ , - would thou consider remembering a mere soldier from a little crowd? I think not.

Ciaran feels that if Artorias will continue on his interrogation, Ornstein might find out that _both_ of them are lying - consequences will be dire. And, dare they tell him that Khaled is actually from future _(she still wasn’t sure if she believed in it that herself),_ Ornstein wouldn’t even listen to them. If by any miracle the man would live through his rage, both of them would be sent back. And she, _she is_ _tired_ of being left behind. She _wants_ to fight, wants to _help_ , to do something for once! For Lord's sake, she is not _useless!_

-Perhaps, thou has’t a point. - a bit distractedly answers the Wolf Knight, his eyes focused somewhere… near Khaled? The Undead could tell - even tho it looks as if he staring at the man, the greyish eyes are just a bit moved to the side. Quite hard to notice for not trained eyes.

But Khaled  _ learned  _ to notice things like this. Can’t remember  _ when, how, why. _ He didn’t- still doesn't- remember  _ anything  _ at this point _ ,  _ but a strange name. He wasn’t sure if this was his-  _ if it’s even a name _ , but this was the  _ only _ thing he could clench onto in that long ago forbidden Asylum.

_ - _ _ Thou who art Undead, art chosen _ _. In thine exodus from the Undead Asylum, maketh pilgrimage to the land of Ancient Lords. When thou ringeth the Bell of Awakening, the fate of the Undead thou shalt know. _

And so he was given purpose, a  _ goal _ to reach. By a stranger, whom he witnessed to give up  _ (almost) _ . And he would fulfill it - no matter how much may he die in agony, how loud would he scream, how often found himself near the everlasting fire and unreachable warmth of the bonfires. And he  _ cert _ ainly will not give it in. For Oscar. For the sake of humankind.

_ Even when sent back in time _ .

-That makes four of us,- the Lion Knight exhales, hands reaching for his face in useless attempts to rub the tiredness away, -against Father of The Abyss. Speaking of which...- he turns his head to Artorias, whom he finds sitting _still_. For a moment a dreadful thought rises from within his mind, for the Wolf Knight represents to Ornstein like a _broken doll._ Ciaran, noticing almost an _animal_ _fear_ in golden eyes, turns attention to her comrade, as blood freezes in her veins from the sight: almost glass-like eyes, completely _grey_ , staring into nothing and _is he even breathing?!_

_ It’s dark. It’s cold. He wants to move- he tries, no avail. Frozen. He is still here, is he? _

-Artorias?-, softly calls Ornstein, hiding his dismay  _ (which is pointless, for his face betrays him) _ , -Art thou alright?

_ It’s not right. His soul - there is twisting inside. Not part of him - too dark, too heavy. It weighs down.  _

-Artorias,- repeats Ornstein, rushing to the man, falling on own knees, left hand gripping onto the shoulder, the right one taking him by the side of the face, tilting the man’s head to him, looking into his own reflection in dead eyes. He  _ can’t  _ understand what’s happening, he  _ doesn't  _ know what caused this state and he  _ has no idea _ on what to do with it. It scares the Lion, _ terrifies,  _ like no other thing before,  _ because he is here, Artorias is right in front of him, and he can do  _ **_nothing_ ** _ to help _ , -Artorias, answer me.

_ Warmth. Feels like… safety. Home? _

_ Just like that little house in the Darkroot Garden, a bit lean to the side, with an everlasting smell of field flowers, that he would bring from any of his wanders around; with a massive door, which is always forgotten to be oil, that meets you with loud creaking; with shabby bed sheets discolored with time with dozens of patches made by his hands. _

_ No.  _

_ It smells of oil, metal, sweat, and blood. It feels like cold golden metal with accurate curves of pattern and warm, pale skin underneath it all, with brutal scars from fire, claws, fangs, and swords; with muscles, gained throughout years of the Dragon War and everyday training afterward, underneath his touch, with such rare smiles and a vow to never leave. _

_ A vow that was not forgotten by the one who gave it. _

When  _ blue _ starts to slowly fill once almost  _ dead _ eyes, Ornstein exhales heavily, from either relief or distress, as he  _ (just for a mere second) _ turns his head to the side to eye the intense posture of the Assassin and…  _ alarmed? _ Undead. The weight from his heart drops right along with a tired voice of his comrade, as he leans forward, falling into Ornstein’s arms: -I’m fine. Just… Tired.

The Undead then speaks, their attention back to the bonfire, as Khaled pokes it with a long brunch: -Perhaps we should wait until the morning. I can guard overnight.  _ The sleep doesn’t bring me any rest anyway. _

-I can do it too,- cuts the cursed Ciaran, all heads now turned to her, -I don’t feel like sleeping anyway.- Actually, she wouldn’t mind taking a short nap, but there is that she doesn’t trust the cursed  _ human _ enough to fall asleep next to them.

Her Commander, however, seems to have  _ different _ plans on this.

-You, Lord’s Blade, must take a rest. Consider this as  _ an order _ . Khaled and I will watch over. Just in case sir Artorias will require some urgent aid.

-I think I am more than capable of…

Ciaran doesn’t get to finish, as Ornstein, voice a bit loud and  _ demanding _ , interrupts: -Capable of stitching a huge gash if it will drift apart? Stop the bleeding, if by some cruel fate design it will start? And last of all, in what position art thou to question my orders?!

All four living beings go silent: Artorias seems to drift into the sleep in arms of the Lion; the Undead laid himself onto one of his bags, sword lying closely, knees pressed against the chest, shield, along with the other bag and estus flask near the bonfire; Assassin silently moving a bit further away, as then she lays herself onto the cloth, back turned to all of who present, face to the so-happened-to-be-close wall of the Arena  _ (How it comes that none notice until now?) _ , as Ornstein slowly moves to the same wall, not letting the Wolf Knight go even for a blink of an eye, pressing wide back against it. This whole day was one big destructive hurricane, and, no matter how much he desired to steal himself a few hours, a newfound worry and fear would not allow him to.

Ciaran doesn’t even try to drift into the land of dreams - her eyes wide open, brows frowned, hidden by so adored cyclops mask. Thousands of thought swirling in her little head, sending any last bits of tiredness away, buzzing like a swarm of hornets, bringing self-doubt along.  _ Am I indeed that useless? What--- Is that--- Why? Does Ornstein really thinks--- do both of them? That I am... _

_ “Why can’t she understand?”,  _ wonders the Lion, examine the woman’s back, perfectly aware that she doesn’t even try to rest, _ “Or, perhaps she does. How can she not? I know it hurts you when I put you behind, I can see that you are ready to sacrifice your everything for him- for I am the same. But here, against it- the Darkness itself- I am afraid we will not stand. Khaled will, perhaps, for, even tho he hides it (or not), he is the Undead. I saw what  _ **_it_ ** _ did to Artorias, and I am still not sure if it’s lost the grip on him. I do not want you to follow the same fate. Nor I want Artorias to repeat it. I, however, lived a long life and would be honored to die fighting  _ **_it_ ** _ \- if such is my fate. I only hope that Artorias will not try to play a hero in the morning.” _

-Sir Ornstein?- after some time calls Khaled, rising from his spot, so unexpectedly pulling Ornstein from the deep sea of thoughts, as Lion’s eyes burn into the dark metal mask, -May I ask thee a question? Thou mayst not answer it if thou will find’st it sensitive _. _ Themes as such are never pleasant ones.

The Lion ponders over the answer for some time, while fingers of his right hand slowly go through the black greasy hair of the sleeping Wolf in his arms  _ (back pressed against the golden chest plate, head a bit to the side, breath steady and calm) _ , left arm holds the said man closer, and, after a couple of seconds, nods, giving his permission. He then watches how the man gets up from the ground, shaking a bit of dust off his scarlet robe, steps of particularly bare feet echoing around the covered in the blanket of the night Amphitheatre. Khaled stops near the Assassin, watching over her for a couple of seconds as if  _ making sure she is asleep _ , only then coming towards Ornstein, taking a place with a slim back to the bonfire, face to the Knight’s Captain. The Undead hesitates for some time until his  _ whisper _ breaks the silence: -Could thou tell’st me about the Dragon War? 

Ornstein couldn’t imagine that  _ a human _ would ever ponder over the War, for many  _ haven’t even heard  _ about it, what to say about  _ knowing something _ aside from  _ “it happened a long time ago” _ . Lord, even between Silver Knights there were only a few to show interest in it. 

-What exactly thou desires’t to know?

-Anything thou can’st tell me.

Ornstein sighs, allowing distant, yet fresh in his mind memories wash him like a total wave, as he starts his story: -Well, happened it a really long time ago, more than two thousand years ago, if not three. Dragons were the ones to rule over the empty-colored world covered in ash. At least, that’s how most of the book starts. In truth, however, the world was not grey, _not entirely_ , that is. And then _the Flame_ came _,-_ Khaled interrupts suddenly, -Came? Just like… that?

-I can’t tell thee how and when exactly did it come. I wasn’t born back then, but, our Lord spoke that at first there was a  _ spark _ .- explains Ornstein, head slightly turned to Khaled.

-And so, thou may have heard that in the Flame  _ three _ found  _ great souls.  _ Gravelord Nito - first of the dead, Witch Izalith with her Daughters of Chaos and our Lord of Sunlight - Gwyn.

Khaled interrupts once again: -Izalith is her  _ name? _ They’ve named that place  _ after her _ ?

Ornstein only laughs quietly: - You, humans, do not know much of the land you live in, do you?

- _ I didn’t know anything aside from my name, and I wasn’t even sure if this mine or if it is even a name _ , - harshly bites Khaled, bringing his knees closer, -What to say about this Land…

-Forgive me.- suddenly speaks Ornstein, voice soft, -I had no intentions to hurt thine feelings in any way.

Khaled only shakes his head: -Doesn’t matter. Please, continue.

-Right,- Ornstein clears his throat, moving a bit as carefully as he can to not disturb Artorias, finding a more comfortable position  _ (as comfortable as it can be when you wearing some heavy armor and have The Wolf Knight to embrace) _ , as he continues: -With newfound power, they’ve decided to challenge the dragons. The War itself lasted for more than… three hundred years, I believe?

_ -That long? _

-Dragons are not  _ exactly the easiest foe to slay _ , must I point.

-It’s not that, it’s just…  _ What _ art thou then?- amusement in a bit hushed by metal voice.

-Excuse me?- perplexes the Knight-Commander.

Khaled shakes his head, explaining himself: -What I mean is, art thou  _ Gods? _ To live for such a  _ long _ time?

-No, we are not Gods. We are… something in between, I guess. I thought I will live as much as your kin does until I was granted a  _ soul _ as well.

- _ A soul? _

-Not as powerful as the Lord’s soul for sure, yet still unique. Tho not many were granted  _ a soul _ from The Flame. And, it’s not actually  _ a soul _ , rather a  _ part  _ of the Flame that connects with our own.

Ornstein’s gives all of his attention to the Undead, as he straightens himself, fingers clenching onto his chest, as something starts to  _ glow _ underneath slim fingers. In the next moment, the warrior pulls out if their chest  _ a soul _ much like The Knight-Commander’s own - a little dancing flame, caught in thin hands of a cursed one, softly flickering and trembling underneath, little light it gives dimed by human fingers. -Like this one?

Ornstein’s eyes widened as he watcher how the Undead brings the soul towards him, allowing it’s light to weakly shine, reflecting in dull eyes of the Knight. Every twinkle resonates with  _ power _ on which his own answers from within his chest, trembling, longing to  _ consume _ and become  _ one _ .

-Where in the world did thou have’st got it?

Khaled closes his fingers around the soul, as it bursts into light, it’s power floating around the covered in dark leather gloves ripped in some places, as then it sinks underneath, floating through the veins, back to the chest of the Undead.

-From the one to  _ whom _ it belonged. A creature that  _ stood in my way  _ and had no intentions to let go. I did what I  _ must. _

Both of them fall into silence: Ornstein in lack of words on how to react to something like this - whatever possessed that souls must’ve been a great and powerful creature and this man managed to  _ slay  _ it. It seems that he  _ earned  _ the Black Knight’s Sword by his  _ blood _ , not by money.

-So what’s with the war?- breaks the silence hushed steady voice.

-As I said, The War began when the Lords Challenged the Dragons, as one of them betrayed his own - the white dragon with no scales, blind and  _ mortal _ . But to thee, he may be known as  _ A Duke _ . He told us, that to the lightning Dragons possessed a weakness - under mighty lightning bolts their stone scales shatter, exposing assailable flesh to Chaos Flames and Miasmas of Death and Diseases. Even with united forces, it was hard to stand against Dragon’s might. Yet, we prevailed. Very much blood has been spilled, many fell- and thus began the  _ Age of Fire. _

-Which battle was the hardest?

- _ The last one _ .

And so Ornstein told the man the story of a battle, where the last of the Dragon Kin have fallen.

_ It has been clear as the sky that day: it was the Final Battle. They’ve gathered all their forces - all troops were here, Izalith and her Daughters, Nito and his Necromancers - all stood alongside Gwyn. And so did Ornstein, for since the very moment the Firstborn has left and abandoned everything and everyone, he was proclaimed to be new Lord-Commander and Leader of all Knights. Artorias stood beside him, his faithful Greatshield and Greatsword along, as all of them gazed upon the horizon, where the huge dark cloud of swirling dragons could be seen. They had nowhere else to go - it was their last lair and nest, and all of the presents knew: _

_ This will end only when one side will remain no more. _

_ -I and my Daughters are ready when thou art.- announced the Witch, her head turned to Lord Gwyn. _

_ -I and my Necromancers will do everything in our power to raise the one who has fallen so they can continue on fighting.- Resounding voice of the First of the Dead echoed. _

_ -We attack when thou command’st, my Lord.- Finishes Ornstein, iron grip on his spear. He still felt sick after the last night, but it all can fade into the abyss. The Lion has no time to grieve over his broken hopes and once again smitten soul. He is a Knight, a warrior, a soldier - and the battlefield is no place for pondering on “why’s” or for any emotional breakdowns. Here, right now, he will either focus on how not to die or he shall join Nito’s Legion of the Dead. _

_ Someone’s heavy head then falls on his shoulder, making him turn his head a bit, meeting with a warm gaze of brightly burning cobalt blue eyes. _

_ “You don’t have to be alone.” _

_ And as Lord of Sunlight nods, giving his permission, the Lion walks, standing tall before the Lords, thousands of Silver Knights below, ready for battle. _

_ -Attack!- His voice echoes around the field with a power it never held before, as he points his spear towards the sky. All soldiers start to howl and shout, as army moves right into the Hell. _

_ And the sky starts to rain with fire, mighty lightning bolts, arrows and dead dragons (some of them just a few months old, only learned how to fly, their scales still soft). Firestorms wash open the battlefield, consuming fallen from the sky dragons. Everything turns in shades of red: from fire and blood. Dragon’s screams of anguish and pain, their fearful roars collide with human screams and shouts, and Ornstein, with no fear and no doubt, jumps off the cliff they all were standing on, Artorias closely near. _

_ -So, what’s the plan, sir?- The Knight asks, adrenaline starting to boil his blood under armor and skin. _

_ -Reap and tear.- Ornstein announces as Artorias prepares to throw himself into the thick of the battle, last words of his commander loudly echoing in his ears: -And do not get yourself killed. _

_ He will try his best. _

_ For Ornstein. _

_ And so they’ve separated themselves from one another. Ornstein followed the crew, which appeared to be attacked by one large beast. _

**_-You, mortals, are nothing compared to me!-_ ** _ it roared, with one powerful swing of its claws hacking Silver Knights in half,  _ **_-Your attempts to break through my skin are pathetic! After this ends, I’ll feast on your bodies, and then I’ll turn your cities to nothing, but ashes!_ **

_ It rises on its two’s, gigantic wings open wide, hiding the sun, casting a shadow so large that it covers most of the ground, and then pours fire underneath, rejoicing upon the scream of the ones to burn alive in dread and pain no word can describe. Everything underneath turns black, as the beast falls on its arms, slamming them into the ground with such power, that it shakes. _

**_-Pitiful worms! If not for this worthless scaleless traitor, all of you would have been dead!-_ ** _ the voice of the beast makes the ground shake, but Ornstein feels no fear, as he walks towards it, spear sparkling with lightning, burn from pure loathing and contempt. As the Lion Knight comes closer, the dragon stops its rage for mere minutes, all eyes focused on a figure marching towards his doom. _

**_-And you. Dragonslayer they call you. You only worth to be a toothpick of mine!-_ ** _ the monstrous dragon’s hot and disgusting breath hits Lion’s face even though the helmet, as it speaks. _

_ -Save your breath.- Ornstein bites back, taking a fighting stance. _

**_-Then prove to me that they ain’t call you The Dragonslayer for nothing!_ **

_ And with that, it lashes forward, jaws wide open, dozens of teeth thirsty for blood, as with unbelievable force its closes with a loud snap. Ornstein dashes to the side, in the next moment jumping onto the beast’s neck, gripping onto the horny growths, small spikes, and huge scales. The dragon immediately pulls it’s head up, and the Dragonslayer almost falls off, in last minutes managing to grip onto the spine spikes - much larger and thicker, little claws on his boots digging into the stone like scales, providing additional support. The beast then tries to tear the man away, as it’s deadly claws aim for Ornstein. In last seconds he dashes to the side, now only one hand gripping onto the spike, as huge claws tear into the dragon’s own skin. It roars in pain, as the Dragonslayer then pulls himself up by one hand. The beast then spins, its tail sending a few Silver Knights flying to the other side of the field, as the Lion notices how a few of his men sent lightning bolts into the beast. _

**_-You ignorant slaves!_ ** _ \- it shouts, as the fire starts to fill its maw,  _ **_-I shall show you the true power of destruction!_ **

_ With that, it opens its wings, as the beast reaps itself from the ground, rising a dust cloud along, with one mighty blow sending itself backward, as then the beast looms it’s head to the side in the next moving covering the entire arena with pure fire, as it flies forward. Ornstein, despite all shakiness of his ride, manages to get to the dragon’s shoulders. The ground underneath turns into leaving hell, as fire consumes everything it can reach. The Dragonslayer then reaps the beast scales with one powerful strike of his spear, turning all his hatred into pure energy, that releases as the dreadful for all dragons lightning. Pieces of its scales fall of its skin, as it roars in anguish, falling to the ground. Everything around shakes and Ornstein cannot hold himself in place: he falls a bit further from the beast. _

_ The gigantic monster doesn’t rest long, as it gets up from the ground, fire filling its maw. With roar filled with rage, it moves towards Ornstein, striking the ground with its arms, claws digging into the mud, breathing fire, and even aiming with its fangs for the Lion Knight. The said Knight roles to the side and under, as the mighty arm hits the ground mere meter away from his head. The beast then rises at it’s two, pouring even more fire underneath, with a clear intention to burn the Knight alive. In the last moment, the Knight-Commander jumps onto its tail, digging the spear into the flesh. The beast then roars, swiftly turning, jaws aiming for the Captain’s head, only to catch a thunderbolt in its mouth, send by his prey. Blood fills its maw, as it coughs, smoke rising from within. Not wasting any time, the Dragonslayer sets another portion of lightning - this time through the flesh, digging his spear deeper into the creature’s tale. In the next moment, loud scream of deep pain echoes around, as with a loud thud the monster’s spiky tail falls to the ground, blood splashes around, flowing into the pool at the ground. _

**_-You! How dare you! Pitful warm!_ ** _ \- it roars with rage, sending the Dragonslayer away with a swipe of deadly claws.  _ **_-I will burn everything here! Everyone!_ **

_ The beast then jumps in the air, heavily flappings its wings, rising the cloud dust along. The massive monster takes off to the sky, fire filling its mouth once again, as it loops in the sky, ready to turn everything that outlived its previous attacks into ashes. Putting all of the remaining strength in one, Ornstein rises, watching the colossal shadow blocking the sun. There is only one hope for him to escape the faith of being cooked in his armor, and so he falls to his knee, trying to remember words of the protective barrier.  _

_ To his luck, the beast doesn’t fulfill his threat, as mighty arrow whistles through the red sky, and then pierce into the dragon’s shoulder, creating the symphony of breaking bones and tearing flesh. The gigantic creature roars in pain, compulsively shaking its head, pouring fire around, as it starts to lose the hight, wings clapping in a desperate attempt to not leave the sky, to no avail. _

_ The dragon falls to the ground far away from the Captain, as the man rises from his spot. Ornstein can deal with this one latter - it is immobilized for now with Gough’s arrow in its shoulder. _

_ The battle rages on for hours now, and the dragon’s ranks are thinning with each passing minute. The taste of victory starts to fell in the air, as the sun shines brightly in the red sky. Commander cannot feel his left arm, the phantom pain of the healed my a miracle injury are the only thing present in it, as he marches with his trophy (a cut dragon tail) over his shoulder to the creature it belonged to. _

_ There it lays on the ground - with a huge arrow sticking out of its shoulder, blood dripping from the fearsome jaws, eyes, that are blinded by blood and smoke, focused on a small, compared to the colossal beast, figure. (At least that’s what he thought they were. They were  _ _ gouged out in fact) _ _ Its body,  _ _ with swords and great arrows sticking out, _ _ heavily lifts with each breath it takes, as it watches its own tail slipping from the man's shoulder, falling onto the ground. _

**_-Nor have I ever imagined, that beings like you would once overcome beings like us._ ** _ \- it breaths out, nor power, nor rage in its voice.  _ **_-I can feel it. How last of us are dying._ **

_ -It was going to end one way.- cuts the Dragonslayer, gripping onto his spear. _

**_-Yet still. Will not I fall that easily.-_ ** _ It announces, rising from its spot,  _ **_-Bring to me an honorable death!_ **

_ And so once again it lashes forward, trying to tear Ornstein with its teeth (even tho some of them turned to be broken), and following to the side, as the man dodges to the side. WIth last bits of strength, it gathers fire inside, pouring it at the ground. Ornstein dashes to the side, piercing with his spear through the scales into its arm, sending lightning along. Beast growls in pain, as the Dragonslayer pierces another whole, and, in lack of strength, the tired monster falls to the side. Ornstein ducks under the massive body, now facing its vulnerable abdomen. With no doubt, he puts his spear deep within the dragon's body, a massive amount of lightning following after. The broken roar of pain cuts through the sky, as the beast no longer tries to get up. _

**_-Well done, Dragonslayer…_ ** _ \- it breaths out, life fading from its body, as the Dragon goes still. _

_ And so it was over. _

-Was it the last dragon thou slayed’st? - wonders Khaled, after the Knight-Commander finishes his story.

-Not even close to the last. There was still rogue ones that needed to be taken care of. For now, there is only one left.

-One  _ ancient _ dragon?

Ornstein nods, eyes staring into the night sky: -The bringer of calamities.  _ Kalameet. _ I’ve never got the chance to catch that elusive bastard. Anyway, - the Knight suddenly cuts off, -It doesn’t matter now. What matters is what awaits for us in  _ The Abyss. _


	9. Way to the Abyss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had some inspiration crises, forgive me for taking so long.

And so the morning came.

Khaled found himself sitting far away from the Knights of Gwyn, back pressed against the cold stone wall, legs slightly apart, one close to his chest, hand gripping onto the handle of the sword, which is standing between, covered in dried blood. He sat there, with his bag of supplies open, cold, empty dead eyes watching closely over two men and a woman, who appeared to be only a bit taller than The Undead, while Lord Ornstein and sir Artorias where _significantly_ taller both Khaled and Lord's Blade.

So it is _past_ . An old tale of the Lion and Wolf walking the Darkness, told by his master Gwyndolin, whom he gladly served as the _Darkmoon Blade_ . He still does, and he _will_ , as soon as he will be back. But soon - _when?_ What if he will not return back? He never heard that the Princess was saved--- Traversed the Abyss, stopped the spread, put Manus at rest--- _nothing about saved the Princess of Oolacile_ . And if so, if she is _no more_ \--- _What will he do?_

His _duty_ , his goal - how in the name of Gods does he planning on fulfilling it _in the past_ ? After such a long and troublesome way to Anor Londo, after being pierced with arrows the size of _a spear_ and fight with the last guardian of the glorious city _(and being smashed by his hammer a few times)_ , when he _finally_ retrieved Lord Vessel and decided to pay a visit to _Duke_ , he just _had_ to find that damned _pend_ ant and try and ask Dusk of it, only to be _dragged in the past!_ Marvelous! Just what he needed!

-Oh, Oscar. Forgive me.- Khaled murmurs, pressing his face, _mask_ , against the sword. -I was the only reason that kept you sane, gave you hope that the prophecy will be fulfilled.- He sighs, breathing heavily, -And I am the one to _fail_ you. I can _only_ pray that you will not go hollow while I'm absent.

 _Oscar of Astora._ A beam of light in that damned prison of his, where he met his fate of _The Chosen_ . It was scary, seemed so _foolish_ , yet he clung on it, as on his dear life. Repeated to himself like a mantra, before throwing himself yet into another battle: _I am chosen. I must not give up. I must prevail_.

The problem is, that he _stopped_ believing in it.

-Oscar, I assume, is thine friend?

The voice is unclear, slightly husky, and it almost makes Khaled jump out of his skin. He harshly pulls his head up, dead eyes meeting the _grey_ with a weak flickering of blue. Almost like glass--- much like his own.

-Indeed he is. A friend and, - the man laughs, _I went too deep into my thoughts, how I haven't noticed him awaken?_ -And a goddamned _savior_.

-May I?- wonders the Knight, eyes sliding to the human's right, asking if he could join him in his doing nothing. The man with the Black Knight's Sword nods a few times, moving slightly to the side, providing more space for the Wolf Knight. The last one that falls on the spot he eyed before with a heavy _thud_ , armor loudly clanging.

-Friends are always like that, - Starts Artorias after a minute of complete silence, slicing it, as a well-sharpened katana exposed flesh, -They do _everything_ for us, and we do everything _for them_ .- his eyes focused directly onto Lion’s posture _(who appeared to take a short nap in the morning)._

-Then, I am _a bad one_.- comes to a conclusion the Undead.

-What exactly did you mean by _failing_ them?- eyes turned back to the smaller human.

-Taking too _much_ time to do what promised.- Simply answers the undead, head hitting the wall behind.

-I am sure thou will fulfill’st thine promise soon, whatever it is. Thou art skilfull warrior, if thou borrow’st the Black Knight’s Sword, and so thou will fight’st through everything, that will stand on thine way, I am sure. And, - The Wolf Knight waits until the Undead tilts their head to him, - thou art not from here, art thou?

-Oolacile is indeed not the place of my birth. I came here… Not _that_ long time ago. But…- _hesitation in voice_ , -I guess it is… my home now.

-I can understand thine hesitations, - _No, for all that I say - dirty lies. I have no home, no place to feel safe._ -Anor Londo doesn't feel like home for me either. - _Why so open, Wolf Knight?_ -Not like _my home_ , where I was born. At least, that's what I thought.

The undead once again raises their head to the slowly turning into the soft blue sky, where the fire of coming sun can be seen, when Artorias continues: -It is not a _place_ that makes you feel like home, but _people_ that wait for you there.

-Like… for thee, Lord Ornstein makes Anor Londo feels like home?- suddenly asks Khaled, changing his position, chin lying atop of the knee, mask a bit lifted.

-Even thou I should not discuss thing like this with thee, - says Artorias, posture leaning against the wall, his entire being… _relaxed_ , as he continues, with to second thoughts -I must say _yes_.

_So open. With no doubt. Speaks with me as if with an old friend. Is he like this? Can he see my worries? Read me? I feel… peace now. As if… As if I can find my home, or, someone that will make me feel…_

_That I don't have to go anywhere anymore._

-Thank you.

-Thou art always welcome.- answers the Gwyn's Knight _simply_ , as if things _should be like that_ . It is odd for the Knight to feel _the need_ to speak with the man, strange for him to open like that for a stranger he hasn't seen before. But something, _small_ and _inconvenient_ , just a mere _flicker_ within his soul, it… It makes feel as if the Undead and _he_ were _alike_ . Perhaps… Artorias saw _someone_ familiar in that man.

They sat like that for some time, listening for the sounds of slowly awakening world. They have no need to talk, to do anything. For now, they can just stay and listen to quite rustling of leaves outside of the Amphitheater, the low and gentle blowing of the wind and of _heavy clanging of metal_ along with echoing footsteps.

-Good morning for thee. - voice calm, with lack of sleep in it, as The Lion Knight stops in front, blocking the light from the rising sun. -Sir Artorias, for a few words?- asks Ornstein, as he stretches his right arm forward, suggesting help. Artorias gladly accepts it, gripping onto the hand, as his comrade pulls him up. The Wolf Knight shakes the dust off what's left of his chainmail under the lower part of his armor and, now almost _black_ , cloth. Even tho he wasn't feeling _that_ well, he still felt uncomfortable without the familiar weight of his armor and so, _to Lord-Commander much displeasure,_ he put it on _(Despite all the troubles he had with it, left arm is still not in a state to operate well yet)._

Ornstein leads his friend away from the Arena, and even tho Artorias cannot see Lion's face, he can tell that he is _nervous_ . His theory confirms when they finally stop outside on one of the bridges, and his comrade _immediately_ leans onto the stone, with missing bricks, crumbled railing _,_ elbows as a support. The man lets out a shaky breath, one hand coming through hair, then trying to wipe some kind of emotion from the pale face, stopping at the mouth. The Wolf Knight stays behind, eyes averted to the side.

So it is going to be _one of these_ talks.

Over the years Artorias learned Ornstein’s behavior. Even tho he could hide his emotions well, especially under the ever shining and never once betraying helmet with bared teeth of a Lion, Artorias started to notice smaller, harder to catch things. _Shoulders up, closer, brows slightly frowned, gaze coming through, fingers moving in any way - from crawling, forming a fist, or either too wide open._

-Artorias,- After a good five minutes breaths out the Knight-Commander, back still to his fellow Knight, -As your Captain,- _Never a good thing_ , -I give thee an order.

In _fear,_ grey eyes turned to the man in front, wandering all over his posture, as Ornstein finally deigns to face the Abysswalker: -You don’t---

He doesn’t finish.

-Yes,- _a deep breath_ -Thou must return to Anor Londo.

-You can’t do it!- Protests immediately Artorias, clenching with both hands. -I am more than capable of fighting---

-Your leading arm was _broken,_ Artorias. My miracle may have, _perhaps_ , put bones back as one, but it doesn’t mean it will work as _normal_ only after some words.- Ornstein snorts, _anger (?)_ burning in dull eyes.

-I still can fight with my right one, and _you know it_ better than anyone else! We taught how to fight with our passive arms _together._ _-_ Not appeases Artorias.

Ornstein bellows now, for mere seconds averting his gaze, as if trying to calm down just enough not to start _shouting_ , -You _couldn’t_ stand against it even with your leading arm well! And I _still_ cannot be sure that **_it_** will not repeat. For God’s sake, I _don’t_ want to contemplate _you_ being taken by _that thing again!_

His breath shakes, mouth wide open as if _it is not enough air,_ and that’s not _anger_ in his eyes that burning, it is _fear_ and _worries_ flaming within, their thorns tearing into the soul. Artorias opens his mouth to say, _say something---_ Only to find himself in lack of words.

Ornstein’s lips _shaking_ , as he continues: -Artorias, when I---, he _stutters, -_ When I saw you _here_ , in _that_ state I _was scared_ . Like never before, I--- I _couldn’t move_ , ‘cause I didn’t believe, _I didn’t want to,_ that it was _not_ a dream. And that pendant, it was the _only_ thing I clanged onto, for I---

He goes silent when a surprisingly light arm falls onto the golden scapular of his armor. Golden eyes met grey ones, now once again with droplets of blue in them, as if some artist allowed a few drops of blue painting fall off the brush into the greyness. He desires to speak, to let the man _understand_ and---

-But _I am_ here, _alive_. Because _you_ _saved_ me. And, I _know_ what's in there, -Fingers clench the scapular, -And, there is _no way_ I’m letting my Captain go there without me. Beside, Sif… Still in there.

Ornstein only sighs in return: -Even my orders have no weight for you now, do they?

-Not only when you want to _sacrifice_ yourself.

_It feels as if for a moment we returned back to days of War - when we both were young, our blood hot, me still dreaming and romanticizing the life after it all. When I came into the troop under your command I was naught but a mere soldier: I felt small next to you - a protege of the Firstborn, one of the first Dragonslayers, and an excellent warrior. I was ready to follow you through hell, for you inspired me in every way possible. You made me believe that I am more, and, as soon as you saw me dancing (or trying to) with a greatsword, you allowed me to finally open. You always kept an eye of all of us, but, maybe you kept both of yours on me._

_Even tho afterward I started to be more careful (the only way to keep you from harm), you would still watch over. Long after the war ended, when I would be assigned and sent into yet another battle, you would always demand at least a short report at the end of every day while I am absent. A few words just so you know that I am alright._

Ornstein humphs in return, closing his eyes: -And so what am I left to do? Anor Londo is practically headless now - all _three_ of the Knights of Gwyn are absent, and Gwyndolin is still naught but _a child_. You with your stubbornness and Ciaran…

-Do you want to send her back?

-No, - the man shakes his head, rising from his pose, slowly starting to make king his way back to the Arena, where both the Undead and Lord’s Blade probably awaited already, -I thought of her as the one to _clean_ up if I so happen to lose the battle ahead. To free my body from under the control of the Abyss and return to Anor Londo.

Blurred, yet horrific memories flow back to the surface of the Abyss grip upon the man’s throat. It’s veiny arms with long, yet inhumanly strong fingers, closing around him, drowning him in all that _dark-_

Artorias shakes them away. _It doesn’t matter_ what he felt in there. What does - is that soon he will face its demons once again and will earn a chance to save little Sif.

**_Why did you bring him with you? He is so young, his milk teeth just fell out._ **

Artorias starts to slow down. Shivers run down his spine, and there is suddenly so cold, _just like there_ . _Cold, with no light_ . He thinks he’s hallucinating or just _hearing things_ but it starts speaking again, and every other noise fades into the background.

**_‘Tis all your fault. That Sif is trapped there, that Ornstein’s here. Anor Londo is now vulnerable as ever - a perfect time for others to take down God’s City._ **

The man bents in half, hands gripping onto his temples, heart pounding in his chest as if trying to break the rib cage and set itself free. The voice, no, _voices,_ so many intertwining in _one_ , silence other things around and everything starts to blur and fade into the dark for mere seconds, so he blinks a few times, trying to focus his vision at least on anything.

**_All because of YOU._ **

And they _laugh_ and _laugh_ so loud it hurts his ears, and he tries to block the sound off, but it’s within his head and it _hurts_ , and he’s drowning in that swirling _darkness---_

When Ornstein noticed his companion slowing down, he asked if everything was alright, and once receiving silence as an answer, his gut told him that something was off. Then the Wolf Knight tugged at his hair, bent in half, blue fading from his eyes, _animal_ fear was written all over his face. The Lion Knight immediately rushed to his fellow Knight, as the man seemed to try and curl into a ball right here, as if… an attempt to hide? He hears footsteps - both light, in a rush, as on his right appears Ciaran.

-What’s wrong with him?- clear worries dancing in her voice.

-I don’t know. Artorias? Can thou hear’st me?- His hands clench around the man’s wrists _(not that hard around the left one),_ trying to put arms away from Wolf’s face, so he would be provided a better view of the Knight’s face.

Khaled appears on the left, yet still distant. In case if they require help, and, _for a pulling feeling behind his ribs_ . As if his soul _(if it indeed was his own, and none one of the souls of slayed foes)_ was trying to reach for… for _what?_

-Artorias!

Ornstein’s hands shake, for Artorias’ own _shake_ so violently, that it’s hard to hold them in place. The thing that calms both the Lion and The Lord’s Blade is how Artorias, at last, raises his eyes at them, the familiar, yet much colder blue peeps out of the grey mass. Eyes slowly starting to focus on their Captain’s face, shaking stopping just as suddenly as it started, as the voices went _quiet_.

-I am…- he breathes out, hands gripping onto Ornstein as if he would let go then all of them would disappear and he once _again_ would be _all alone_ , -I am fine.

-No, thou art not.- Cuts Ciaran, helping Artorias to straight himself along with Ornstein, -Thou seem'st to almost fall unconscious.

-I am **_fine!_ ** \- The man practically _barks_ in return, voice lowering, the growling sound coming from within his chest, as he reaps his arms away, taking two steps back. His lips apart, revealing sharp, almost animal-like fangs, brows frowned, creating an expression of a _wild beast_ bearing its teeth as a warning. Ciaran, out of fear at such strange action coming from Artorias, takes a step back. Ornstein only casts a look of suspicion, as Artorias’ face features relax, and fangs are seen no more. He _didn't_ have such _animal-like_ teeth. Could it be the influence of the Abyss? Awakening the inner beast?

-Forgive me, - Artorias sighs, entire posture sinking, shoulders falling, -I did not mean to snap like that.

Ciaran rises her head as if to say something, but Captain interrupts her before even the word manages to fall from her lips: -Now, we’ve lost a lot of time already. Gather all the supplies, leash the horses. Then sir Artorias shall’st give us a quick presentation of what is waiting for us.

And so each one of them picks a task of their own: Ornstein gathers the cloth, all medical supplies into the bag where it belongs, The Undead picking his own bags, making sure they will not get in a way during his flips, Artorias taking his sword _(which is only by a miracle was still dangerous enough, even with half missing handle and as if melted at the end blade)_ and bringing Ornstein's spear to its rightful owner, while Ciaran takes horses outside the Arena, where they can at least have some grass to chew. Once everyone is finished, the bag with medical supplies given to Ciaran and secured on her back with four belts, all warriors ready for whatever monster does the Abyss hide.

-The Chasms of the Abyss, if simple, is something of a maze,- Starts Artorias, as all eyes _(or masks)_ turned to him, -and, to our luck, has no places that can be traversed only with the covenant ring. It appears to be built that way so humans could have traveled there on their two.

Now, that dark grey _(it was light before, wasn’t it?)_ helmet with one broken ear _(Giant Blacksmith said: “Thou art a Wolf. Thou need a proper helmet. Like the Lion.” referring to Ornstein and his not unfamous Lion helmet)_ is back along with his hood _(darkened from the Abyss as well, as it seems)_ ,the most part of his face was hidden from the eyes of others. He cast an eye onto his index finger, where the said ring was.

-A path to Manus is long and dangerous - the Chasm is teeming with bloatheads, sorcerers, and _humanity._

-Humanity?- comes from the left, where Khaled is standing.

-The size of you,- only by little tilt to the side the Undead is sure Artorias _does_ looks at him, -Can move pretty fast and they… Well, they do not exactly attack, more of like…- Strong hands gesturing as if rejecting visible to only sir Artorias words, -Like exhaust thee of any powers. One by one it is not that dangerous. Once many, however…

It was so many of them there, surrounding him as if forming a see where he was drowning along with Sif. In the last of his strength, he threw his shield to create the barrier around the pup and then…

He _ran,_ leading as many of these things _away_ as he could and only then fighting. Some of them manage to touch him - and through all of his armor, it felt like _acid_ on the skin. Even if the slightest touch feels like this, he wonders how painful it was _to die_ to such touch.

-They can be very dangerous.- Artorias manages to finish, breathing out, the phantom feeling of that acid dancing at his arm and body. He then feels a hand falling onto his right shoulder as if its owner can feel his inner distress. It wasn’t something unique for them - throughout the Dragon War, all this rather simple touches reminded about a thing so easily forgotten.

 _You are not alone_.

-I’ve left the prism stones along my way. Orientating there wouldn’t be much of a problem. In spite of this, _getting there_ is another problem.

Artorias leaves the Amphitheater behind, going forward. Both Khaled and Ciaran moves along, getting in front of the man, while Ornstein just stays closely near. The taller man then gestures to the single _(and quite dangerous)_ path, laid through the tall, bent to the side buildings, half broken stairs with visible from such distance silhouettes of the Bloatheads. The entire township looks abandoned for _years_ , there are ivy and other greenery with it growing along and through the walls, wrapping the place in its dark green. The path leads to another building similar to the Amphitheater they’ve stayed in.

-There are two elevators leading down to the excavations themselves. One, and the one I used is deep down. The way to get there,- The Wolf Knight points to the huge building on their left, that looks like it _sank_ into the huge crack under, with only one bridge leading to it from the round building they’ve seen before, -Is through here. That place is filled to the top with bloatheads and sorcerers. And then there was… _a thing_.

Ornstein glances to the Knight, -What _kind of_ thing?

-I have no idea what it is. It all covered with chains with a _log_ sticking out of it. And the chains - whenever I hit it I felt that be it a regular sword it would’ve _reflected_ from it. Even tho I killed it, I can’t be sure we will not meet anything similar to it again.

 _-We will.- States_ the Undead, their look focused somewhere far below, -And I can assume that it _will_ reflect _other_ weapons, aside from a greatsword _._ \- their head consistently turns first to Ciaran, secondary to Ornstein.

-We are not without surprises _either_.- Concludes Ornstein, and, as a demonstrating, the end of his spears sparkles lazily, -And we shall see if it’s even there in the first place.

-So that’s our plan?- Wonders Ciaran, hands across her chest, -To fight to the elevator?

Ornstein turns to her, now as never before desiring his helmet back, -I, alongside with Artorias, shall take the lead, and thee, Lord’s Blade and Khaled, shall watch for our backs. And _do not_ engage in the thick of the Battle. _That is the order_.

No protests come. Ciaran only lowers her head, as a sign of defeat, while Khaled only smirks underneath. It seems that the World finally showed him mercy and sent upon his journey someone strong with whom he will fight _alongside_ , not _against_ . Every damn creature in this land desired his blood. Even his master showed him no mercy once he asked to retrieve the Vessel _peacefully_ , for he already spilled enough blood. But The Dark Sun was unbending: “Thou must prove’st thine worth and that thou art fit to be the Chosen. Prevail and defeat the Executioner.”

Now that he’s here, with _Knights of Gwyn,_ he wonders why is Executioner is the one to guard and not them? Wouldn’t it be more fitting for a _Knight_ to guard the Cathedral?

Well, he _knows_ about Lord’s Blade - the place of her final rest is deep within the Darkroot garden, guarded by the _Monstrous Beast._ He remembers speaking about it with an old white cat.

_-My master told me that behind the door is the place of the Lord’s Blade rest. Is it true?_

_The white-furred creature only laughed: -The final rest of many fallen it is and her as well. The rest, that must not be interrupted._

_-How is she the only Knight of Gwyn to… find her rest?_

_The cat scratches its claws against the stones, speaking, voice rumbling: -She wasn't supposed to live for eternity in the first place. Her soul was much weaker than the souls of her fellow comrades. But it doesn’t make her less important._

Alvina never spoke of her again. It was all that he knew of Ciaran at that point. It already was a gift that he was allowed to be in that part of the Garden, guarded by her hunters. A gift earned by killing the sinister, who betrayed them.

Tho, Khaled knew, somehow, that when the time comes he’ll interrupt the peace. Such is his fate, as it seems.

But for now, let it be forgotten. He has a duty to fulfill.

-Now that everything is cleared, let’s go.- Announces Ornstein, as he takes a lead, spear in two hands, Artorias walking closely behind, Ciaran and Khaled following a bit further behind.

As they make their way through the township, Khaled learns that it’s _hard_ to die when fighting alongside someone _(especially if this someone is twice your size, with a huge spear and lightning inside or with a sword the same size of them)_ . Now that he looks at how _perfectly_ sir Artorias fights along with Lord Ornstein, throwing bloatheads away, _actually cutting them in half_ , as they watch for each other backs, shouting and covering from any damage, he is _glad_ that the Cathedral was guarded by that lover of smashing his poor being with hammer and not by these two - they do not actually fight, but rather _dance_ with death, and now, when Khaled saw with his own eyes how Ornstein with his spear _raised a cloud of dust,_ then stepped to the side, allowing Artorias to lash forward with a wide swing, killing blinded monsters _(Even tho there is some uneasiness in the action of the second, they still prevail)_ , he understands that he would have _never_ defeated them.

There are two of these creatures trying to sneak on them, but they don’t manage to do much. Khaled flips to the creatures back, dodging from its powerful hands, immediately piercing it through, as it laughs, blood flowing to the ground. Kicking the limp body off the blade, he watches how the Assassin moves _with grace_ around the creature, cutting at the most vulnerable places. The thing falls to the ground, bleeding, mad laugh dying in its throat, as the creature after a couple of seconds doesn’t twitch anymore.

The entire path appears to be naught but a walk for the group. Crossing the bridge, however, was a bit hard - it is small, and there were sorcerers on the other side, laughing just as madly as the Bloatheads, sending masses of _pure dark_ onto them. Ornstein sent his lighting bolts into them, while the Undead stuffed oversized heads with arrows _(while the sad arrows were hidden underneath the skirt, attached to the shins, another part in a quiver hidden underneath the shield, the bow came from the quite large box, that he said appeared to be bottomless)._ Once the sorcerers were no more, the only dangerous thing about the bridge was its ability to easily _fall_ under their feet.

The further they’ve gone, the more there was of that black with blue goo or slime, or _whatever_ that thing was. It covered walls, floor, even ceilings, slowly dripping from it. There was a dark haze floating around it, as if… it was producing it? Whatever it was and what it does - it certinaly was a consequence of The Spread.

The building, just like Artorias said, was teeming with Bloatheads and Sorcerers.

While the Wolf and the Lion took the main attention, back against one another, Ciaran and Khaled made their way through to the sorcerers. These mad creatures were much more dangerous - Khaled felt their magic on his own skin _(Taking a hit that was sent into Ornstein who, unlike the cursed one, dodged)_ and it _hurts like hell_ . And _his soul,_ it strangely responded on it. Not to something harmful, rather… to _something familiar_.

Like a little army, Bloatheads protect their Sorcerers, trying to keep both Ciaran and Khaled away. To no avail, for both are too fast _(even the Undead with the greatsword)_ for their fists to reach. Ciaran dashes trough, Silver Tracer leaving little drops of poison in wounds of the creatures, as then she dashes behind the Sorcerer, cutting her throat open with both blades at the same time. Blood splatters from the wound, as the Assassin dashes backward, head tilted to the side, watching how the Undead with one mighty strike hurls the creature backward, letting its guts out. For a moment their gazes cross, and they exchange with simple nods to one another.

Ornstein can see through the rain of hits landed by the Bloatheads how the sorcerers are falling one by one. Dodging both dark magick and violent attempts to tear him apart started to get difficult, and he took notice that Artorias no longer attacked with a pressure he used to _(even injured)_ , but mostly _reflected or protected._ Ornstein, however, doubled his pressure, now watching for Artorias to not miss any hit as well, practically dragging creatures away from the man with his spear.

Once all the sorcerers are dead and gone, Khaled and Ciaran starts to work on the last rows, the Assassin taking them one by one, the Undead risking and working with two-three at once, using wide horizontal swings, finishing the last one either in the back or jumping, bringing the heavy blade onto the not that lucky creature.

After a good ten minutes, the last one is finished with a spear into its head, a jolt of lightning running through its body. It _screamed_ in pain, in pointless attempts reached for the weapon, even tried to pull it out - to no avail, and only then went limp at the spear.

-Which way leads to the elevator?- a voice echoes around the place, tone demanding, words clear, as Ornstein turns his head to Artorias, who leans on his sword.

-I…- The Wolf's breath is heavy, _way to_ o _heavy_ as if there is not enough air in the room, -I remember. There.

Arm trembles, as it gestures a bit to the left, gesturing that there is a turn further away. Khaled is the first to make his way there, Ciaran following soon after, but stopping right before the turn. She watches over her shoulder how Ornstein moves to Artorias, can hardly, yet still hear him asking if the Knight was alright, can hear that _worry_ and _tenderness_ in a few seconds ago such powerful voice. She wants to stay for a while, to watch for a bit longer but still follows after the Undead.

_“Sometimes it's better to just accept. Even if you do not understand it.”_

Even if _it_ is already between them - what could she do about it? She has no power over Artorias’ heart. She _never_ did, never will - and, if she _isn't seeing_ things, that all between them have been for _thousands_ of years. Perhaps she wasn’t spending enough time with both of them to see - to _read_ it in their eyes, in simplest of touch. Maybe didn’t want to notice - _that’s easier_.

_“Thou who love can’st be blinded by said love. Blinded so much to not notice the evident.”_

No.

That’s not something Lord’s Blade should think about. Whatever it is between them, whatever that is _not_ \- she has a duty, _a task_ to complete.

Khaled waited for her politely, head turned to the side, sword abutting into the stone floor, hands resting at the handle, shoulders wide. He doesn’t speak or tells anything, just nods, as if _with understanding_ , as they both egress to another kind of bridge with four sorcerers and around six regular beasts. They do not need to communicate with one another, as Khaled dashes forward, iron grip upon his blade, accompanied by a wide swing that sends one sorcerer and three of Bloatheads backward. Ciaran follows soon after, almost like lighting appearing from behind of a man, her blades piercing into the body of the second sorcerer, who stood a bit to their left. Her kill is swift, yet painful. Khaled then immediately raises his sword to block two fists crashing onto him. The blade only scratches the beast’s hands and shakes violently under such force. It still injures the Undead, its arms crushing his leg, sound of _bone breaking_ cutting through the air. The man inhales sharply, hissing with pain, his entire weight shifting onto the other leg. In last of his strength, he pierces the monster’s head, allowing it to fall with his sword. Hands trembling, he brokenly takes the Estus flask, taking two quick sips from it. The wave of light rushes through, putting the bone back as one, healing teared flesh. As soon as the flask is back at his belt, he tears his sword away from the head of a limp creature, with shout of rage swinging wide, from right to the left. Baring his teeth _(even tho no one can see),_ he lashes forward, putting his sword through the body of the sorcerer, sending it flying to the side. Ciaran to his right dances her own dance of death, moving with such _grace_ and _danger_ he never has to catch the sight of. It enchains him, and the Undead would have been torn into pieces if not for the Lighting bolt throwing the thing off the balance. Now, back focused, he finishes the lying thing with one swift strike of the sword.

- _Battle_ is what you must be focused on. Not pretty woman. - Сensures Ornstein, sparing shorter man a look of disapproval, as he passes by, once again taking the leading position. Artorias lowers himself a bit, whispering: -Tho, thou had’st fought well.

The Undead sees them both off, one simple thought slipping into his mind - these two, of whom he heard so many times, which statutes were built so perfectly, with almost identical copies of their weapons, whom he _feared_ only a slightest and respected - they were _definitely worth each other._ One drops a harsh remark, other almost immediately says that it _wasn’t bad_ , actually _talks_ with him as with an old friend, other seems so cold _(he still remembers how Lion’s face shined when they performed their little song)_ and not… a very pleasant person at first.

The group finally enters a hall that leads to the elevator. There are broken columns, huge pieces lying around and _dried_ blood.

-I’ve met it here,- announces Artorias. -It came out of the passageway.

Low, yet powerful roar echoes around the place, accompanied by a loud, hideous grind of chains and… stone? against the floor, as the huge creature, all covered in chains, with _a log_ sticking out of it slowly walks towards the Knights _(and one Undead)_ , a huge cobblestone dragging along, attached to the thing by a long chain. Whatever it is, but when Khaled looks at it, he can feel his heart sinking down. It actually _screams_ in anguish, before lowering the log, aiming for the Four.

-Scatter!- Commands Ornstein, making his way to the creature’s right side, as others follow his example: Artorias dashes to the left, Ciaran to the left side, watching the log pass by on _insane speed_ . In last moment before it hits him, Khaled flips to the side, and as soon as he stood on his two, he jumped onto the creature, sword loudly clashing against the chains, _sliding off_ in a process, breaking only a few of many links. The Undead curses loudly, watching how the thing with _unbelievable_ speed turns sixty degrees, sending him flying to the side, log hitting right arm, almost knocking the sword out of the man’s grip.

Ciaran is the next one to try and attack, once the creature appears to be open - she dashes forward and tries to thrust the Golden Trace through the chains - and it does _cut_ through, however, once trying to take it back she _fails_.

 _It stuck_.

Lord’s Blade tries once again - no avail, and the creature already started to move with a strange growling sound. She tries again, and almost gets pushed backward by the monstrous thing - but the crackle of lightning and following soon after a _scream_ of agony and ire gives her time to move away.

 _At least it will start to bleed_.

Ornstein sends another Great Lighting Spear into the thing, making it twist and shake violently, huge rock flying around along with its convulsive twists, as it screams in such agony that it _hurts_ Khaled’s ears. It’s so loud and _filled with agony_ , he himself can _fell it_ with his trembling and aching soul.

As if it was… _human_ once.

Artorias is the one to end the poor being’s suffering, as he jumps high _(as it is possible in here)_ in the air, in the next moment falling onto the chained creature, the blade of his sword piercing through all of the metal rope, into the flesh, destroying most of the vital organs, causing massive bleeding and not-very quick and horrific, torment death. It twists, shrieks, cries out, trying to do _anything_. Only after a good thirty seconds it stops to move and making any noises, body falling into pieces, naught, but a pile of dust remaining.

A rather traumatizing sight to catch.

None of the presents, aside from The Cursed one, however, doesn’t seem to be troubled by it.

Ciaran picks the Gold Tracer from the pile of dust, as both Ornstein and Artorias on their way to the elevator. Khaled rushes to them, casting a look on the pile of dirty remainings of the things, lying in a pool of blood. Shivers run down his spine, but the Undead keeps it to himself, catching up with the Knights.

_He will face much more terrifying pictures in the Abyss anyway._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now, another chapter is done and we're getting closer to the main action.
> 
> Please, consider leaving even a small comment below - there is nothing like feedback that makes you work harder. You can follow me on Tumblr if you desire -> https://cryindollhouse.tumblr.com/


	10. Walking in the Dark.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Abyss clearly prepares something.

The Abyss meets them with cold and surrounding darkness, shoved off by the small bonfire, where embers barely flicker. Elevator appeared to be too small to fit them all by once, and so while Ornstein waited for the rest, he stood near the bonfire, eyes hinting onto every detail. A coiled sword sticking out of  _ burning  _ bones - The Lion Knight distinguish the crushed skull laying under the layer of dust and soot.

He is not familiar with how exactly do bonfires like this one work: the only thing The Knight was sure in - they drew the cursed undead.

Perhaps Khaled can tell him more. Especially now, that in monthly reports from the other parts of the Kingdom there is  _ always _ a number in a column “Cursed Humans”.

-Thou had’st never saw a  _ bon _ fire out of  _ bones? _

Khaled’s voice sounds dry and  _ forced _ , with notes of mockery in it. Ornstein harshly turns his head to the man, as he stops right in front of the light source, his hand reaching for it. In just one moment  _ the flame _ inside ignites with power, allowing to finally see the surroundings.  _ Prison cells _ \- are what around them, with damaged walls and heavily twisted bars. So that thing must have been a  _ prisoner _ before. But what crime must one commit to being sentenced to such punishment, then?

Khaled snorts to himself, moving his hand away and taking a look around as well. What makes him more uncomfortable, is the same black slime all over the walls and so strangely… forming a circle around the bonfire. As if it cannot get any closer to it. The entire deal with The Abyss and the dreadful creatures it hides made Khaled rather uncomfortable. The Undead could swear that right at that moment he felt the ghostly daggers piercing into his skin, leaving the not-so-ghostly wounds,  _ that actually can kill _ . And all he was doing - exploring the damn elevator under the Shrine.

Ciaran is the next one to appear from the entrance,  _ both _ her blades along, loyal to her as always. The Undead places his flask into the fire  _ again _ , allowing it to refill once again.   
  
_ Estus is like a little part of the flame. It takes its powers from fire - ‘tis why it shines so brightly _ .

Artorias appears only after good thirty seconds, eyes chained to the floor by some unknown reason. All of the ones present can notice how heavily he leans on his sword and uses it as support, and  _ is this something black dripping from his mouth? _

-So now we will separate. Artorias will take Ciaran and will look for Sif. I and Khaled will clean a bit in here and look for the way to Manus, whenever he is. Once you find Sif, return in here and follow our path. Understood?- The Lion Knight eyes everyone in the room. Khaled shrugs his shoulder, picking the once again filled flask from out of the fire and attaching it to the place where it belongs, and walking to the only way out of here. Ciaran nods swiftly, coming at Artorias’ side. And only Artorias says  _ “Understood”  _ in return, following after the Undead into the Chasm. 

Ornstein rubs his face. Ciaran was fast, and,  _ Gods, let it not happen,  _ in case of anything will be able to find them quickly. From now on all, that he can do - pray and  _ fight _ .

And so they separate: Artorias chose a path, with which one he returned  _ (and so along which Sif was, with prism stones along it) _ and Ornstein chose an opposite direction - dark, still unknown.   
  


Ciaran follows closely after Artorias, her eyes focused on his wide back, from time to time checking sides. Now, that the Lord’s blade takes a look closer to her friend’s armor, she can notice a huge crack in it - whatever caused it, it had a  _ monstrous _ power, even if didn’t reach The Wolf’s Knight body  _ (gladly) _ . His once soft, sky-blue cape now was a ragged dirty cloth, loosely hanging from his back. One of his helmet ears is broken, his plume turned  _ black _ , shoulder pad with the same terrible crack across. What to say of his trousers -  _ they’ve simply no longer could fit for the fight _ . Where in their Lord’s Name Ornstein has been locking?! She can understand Artorias - a stubborn Knight he was, but  _ Ornstein?! _ Artorias would be much safer far from here.

-It… Shouldn’t be that far from there.- He coughs, trying to silence it with his palm, -I… Remember.  _ I must _ .

Ciaran is now completely sure that  _ he is not alright _ .

-Artorias, calm down. We will find him.- A woman comes closer to him, gently touching his arm. -Thou just need’st to focus.

The warrior takes a deep breath, before looking around and turning a bit to the right, following the stones. Ciaran follows him once again, now looking around more closely. It’s dark and…  _ silent.  _ Too silent. And none of these creatures around - they’ve met more on the  _ way _ in here, and now,  _ in the heart of the Abyss, _ it was  _ too _ empty. As if… _ It was preparing something _ .  _ Waiting. Like a predator. _

They walk like that for  _ twenty _ minutes, if not much, the only sound - is the noise they produce: Clashing of Artorias’ armor with each move, his heavy breathing, and heavy footsteps, her own - much lighter and the rustling of clothes. It echoes around, only adding more weight to the not so light atmosphere.

-Doesn’t it appear strange to thee?- She asks with hesitation. Artorias doesn’t even try to acknowledge that he heard her. -That the place is so empty?

-Doesn’t matter.- Voice low, and, did she just heard things, or is it…  _ growling _ coming along from his throat?

-What do thou mean’st by “Doesn’t matter”?! Thou had’st said it thineselves---

She doesn’t manage to finish, as he turns to her, his eyes  _ dark _ grey, interrupting her, voice loud as thunder, low, like a growl:  **_-Doesn’t matter! Sif matters!_ **

With that, he clenches his teeth, starting to walk faster. His blood starts to boil under The Knights skin, fogging his mind. Voices rise again - loud as never before.   
  
**_‘Tis all your fault. You were weak. You still are. ‘Tis why he chose that man over you._ **

-No, no,  **no!** \- He repeats, shaking his head, no longer understanding  _ in which _ direction he  _ starts running _ , -He wouldn’t do that.  **He wouldn’t---!**

**What makes you think he didn’t? Your arm was broken, your armor is ruined, shield - missing. You are a problem here. ‘Tis why he wanted to send you to Anor Londo. How can you** **_save_ ** **dear Sif, when you couldn't even** **_save yourself?_ **

**-NO!-** , he shouts, closing his eyes in despair, losing any track on where he goes. He doesn't hear Ciaran's voice behind, and how it fades as he runs. He doesn't stop, he keeps running and  _ running  _ until…

There is only dark around, now, and no sight of prism stones. And he is  _ alone _ in here  _ once again _ . It's cold, and mist makes it even harder to see, as Artorias finally stops, looking around him. The Wolf Knight cannot tell from which direction he came, and that terrifies him: he separated himself from Ciaran, had no idea where to go and how to return.

_ -Artorias. _ \- The voice suddenly calls, so familiar and gentle, it lures him,  _ guides him _ . Like a moth to the flame - he blindly follows it, moving further into the dark.

_ -My dear, lovely Artorias.- _ The voice calls again, much closer now. Soft, and tender, it draws the Wolf Knight to itself. - _ Come to me. _

He follows blindly, and the voice is so  _ familiar _ , he heard it so many times before, yet now could no longer bring back the name. He still goes after it nonetheless.

It grows louder and louder, and The Wolf Knight does feel like the distance is getting shorter - just a little more, and they would meet  _ at last _ . The question of  _ with whom _ and  _ how did they've got to the Abyss _ didn't really bother him at the moment.   
  


The Chasm is indeed one big  _ maze _ .

Khaled cannot be sure if all of these paths were made by human’s hand or by something  _ other _ , but whatever it was, it did its job  _ well _ . The fact that it was so dark, that he barely could’ve seen anything that was at least a bit further, than the tips of his fingers, if he would stretch his arm, made it  _ only worse _ . He almost fell down into that swallowing darkness of nor for Ornstein to pull him back up, annoyance and  _ maybe just a little bit, so little you can’t even see, _ of worry written on his face.

-Watch where your damn feet lead thee,- he scoffs, shoving the Undead to the side, -Or thou will get’st thineself killed even  _ before _ we will find where Manus is.

And Khaled  _ swears _ , he was watching his feet  _ this _ time! The floor just  _ disappeared  _ under them, as if it was never there in the first place!

And so Khaled is about five meters lower, judging by how  _ he cannot see shit _ and how the roll at the end  _ (that happened on instincts, if not for them - he would surely break his legs) _ still hurt pretty bad.

-Khaled?!- Sounds from above and, once tensing his eyes, the warrior catches the sight of looming tall silhouette in weakly shining golden armor.

The called one moves his mask to the side, with his palms forming something of-a-tunnel around his mouth, shouting in return: -Still alive! There is ledge down here!

-Is there enough space for two?

Khaled takes a proper look around now, seeing, that there was some sort of path leading further. There is certainly enough space for two, and Khaled is not sure if the way will lead him back to where Knight-Commander is right now.

-Give me a second!

He must have them somewhere - he clearly remembers buying some from that Undead Merchant that tried to sell him moss. He checks his bags, if they are attached to any part of his legs  _ (like arrows and dagger, along with throwing knives) _ and only then checks the bottomless box - and  _ here they are _ . Warm, radiating the soft light. He drops a few prism stones to the ground, allowing their colorful light to shine through the dark.

Khaled them moves to the side  _ (and just in time) _ as in the next moment Ornstein lands near on his two, rising a little dust cloud. Khaled adjusts the metal mask, so now it once again hides his face.

-What did I tell thee about  _ watching their feet?- _ Immediately starts Ornstein, straightening himself.

-Not my fault  _ the ground disappeared  _ under them.- Protests Khaled, putting the box back in a bag. -Good thing the ledge was under -but what's the point then? Illusionary walls are to hide things, Illusionary floor - to hide traps, can assume. But I am alive… So what that makes it?

-A hidden way.

Khaled stops from looking at the place, from where he had fallen just a little bit less than a minute ago, now turning his face back to Ornstein. The man looks right into the so unwelcoming darkness, grip on his spear becoming iron. Khaled walks closer, stopping at Lion’s side. He looks into the dark as well, not knowing what exactly he wants to see there.   
  
_ Huh? _

A spark. So weak, disappearing just as fast as it appeared - in a blink of an eye. The Undead shakes his head, not believing his eyes.   
  
_ There! Again! _

-Thou saw’st that?- the warrior asks, taking a step forward. There is something there - something that…  _ called _ for him?

-Aside from pitch darkness only  _ more  _ darkness.- The Lion being honest, as he turns back to the… cliff? From which Khaled fell and he  _ had  _ to follow _. _ It’s not that high - he can jump onto the wall and use his spear to gain height---

-I think I can get us back--- Ornstein turns to his companion, only to find him rushing further, almost disappearing in the darkening mist. -Khaled, damn thee!-

  
  


-Artorias!- Ciaran shouts to the man, not being able to catch with him. No matter how fast she was - The Wolf Knights seems to be two times faster, ignoring her pleas to stop or at least take it a bit slowly. His one step equaled three of hers, and every time she made five, he made  _ fifteen _ . His armor, now much darker shade, started to melt into one with the darkness of the Abyss, until she  _ has lost _ The Wolf Knight completely. 

She keeps on, The Lord's Blade assumes, following him. Even if she no longer hears him rejecting something, nor the clashing of steel, nor clanging of chain-mail pieces,  _ nothing _ .

_ He was not alright _ .

_ He was not alright, and Ornstein must have known, yet he allowed Artorias to return in the Abyss nonetheless! _

-Artorias!- She tries again, slowing down. The Wolf Knight could have taken any turn and Ciaran had no interest in getting trapped in here. Finding a way back would already be a problem, and,  _ hold on, where are the prism stones? _

Could that be that in… whatever state the Knight is, he actually would go  _ off _ the path that leads to Sif? Or did he stopped leaving little glowing stones along the way at some point?  _ Why? _

An uneasy feeling starts to form within her chest. No response comes, no prism stones around,  _ pitch blackness _ , and  _ absolute _ silence now, that she stands still.

_ Something is up _ .

-Artorias!- she tries once again, voice reflecting from walls, forming echo. Nervousness arises in her - how far could he go and what is she out to do?

-Ciaran.- Sounds from her right,  _ thank Gods,  _ Artorias’ voice. She rushes to the sound, relieved that  _ he is alright _ , leaving the weight on her heart behind. Even if the voice sounded  _ close _ , she still cannot catch sight of her friend.

-Artorias, where are you? I can't see thee.

She slows down, tensing her ears. She didn't just hear things, did she? She walks to her right for some time and after a good two minutes  _ catches his  _ voice once again.

-Ciaran, I’m right here.

It sounds  _ behind _ , which is  _ suspicions,  _ yet she can't help but let the breath out, turning one hundred eighty degrees. There he stands tall - just stretch your arm. And Ciaran does, just to make  _ sure _ that he is real. The invariably feels familiar under the touch,  _ and does he move closer? _

-See?- Artorias laughs a bit, looming, -I am right here. Forgive me for running off so suddenly. I just worry about Sif.

The woman only smiles under her mask, allowing herself to gently cup his cheek with her left hand. Her eyes then catch… something behind Artorias’ back. And where is his sword? And that appearance right behind her.  _ Was it really him _ ? Her right hand grips onto the Golden Tracer, as the man moves closer.

-And I'm alright.- He coos,  _ clearly  _ trying to distract her from whatever that is he hides. He?  _ It? _

_ Huge blade. _

_ It's not Artorias! And this thing has a blade, hit by which she will not survive! _

Lord's Blade bares the Golden Tracer, with no hesitation piercing the _too-real-looking-like_ _illusion's_ head, immediately backing away. The thing lets out an inhuman screech, as an illusion fades, revealing a true face of the imposter: its shape, that is somehow very similar to Artorias’ helmet - only it had _six_ ears and _eight_ white eyes. It screams and twitches compulsively, rising on its two. Now the Lord’s Blade can clearly see what is this in front of her.

Slim, tall creature, all muscles are clear to see, its coat dark, and appears absolutely  _ black  _ in here. It doesn’t have legs, at least, not the one you expect - rather some long and slim tentacles, along with a tail  _ (that is much longer than creature’s legs) _ . It has no arms, or paws for that matter, but limbs with long blades, that start right from the wrists. Now, as illusion fades, Ciaran sees what formed the illusion of Artorias’ armor and cape - a pair of soft blue  _ wings _ , that awfully look like the insect ones. Thin, white lines “shatter” them on dozens of pieces, creating an expression of shattered glass. There are long outgrowths coming from the creature’s shoulders and it… it does look like something that could have come out of the Abyss.   
  
It goes still, now limp body falls to the ground with a loud “thud”. So they are not as tenacious for their lives as Bloatheads, if just  _ one _ strike for the head was enough. Yet, they are still dangerous - mimicking Artorias,  _ no,  _ creating a  _ fully tangible  _ illusion, with an ability to  _ talk _ , was not something even the strongest sorcerers could do, what to say of creatures that were born in the Abyss.

_ No _ .

If one of these things could have  _ become _ Artorias, then, surely, becoming an injured  _ wolf pup _ wouldn’t be much of a problem, and, considering the state of the Wolf Knight,  _ the man would even understand what hit him _ .

_ I need to find him. And fast. _

And so Ciaran chose a direction, that her heart told her to, and  _ runs _ , shouting Artorias’ name.

  
  


Damn that human!

Firstly Khaled almost falls off, then he  _ actually  _ does, blames it on the  _ illusionary floor, _ and now just  _ runs off _ into the Darkness because he  _ saw something! Fantastic!  _ Does every his companion, wielding a greatsword, has to be  _ so capricious _ ?!

Ornstein actually orders Khaled to stop, but it appears that the man was enchanted by whatever that he saw in that pitch darkness: he doesn’t react on it anyhow, only continues on running.

Ornstein doesn’t plan on playing “run and catch”, so The Lion calls on the Lightning within his soul. It pulses inside, longing to be released and Ornstein obeys it - thunder strike cuts through the air, as the man catches up with Khaled just in a blink of an eye, lightning accompanies him. With electricity still dancing on his armor, the Lion harshly pulls Khaled by the collar of his coat, stopping him dead in tracks. The Undead seems to be not that pleasant by the sudden pull, as he jerks his head to Ornstein.

-Hey! We, humans, are  _ fragile _ _!_ \- He resents, adjusting his coat.

-If thou art so  _ fragile _ , then clear thine ears.- Dourly says Ornstein, - Have thou lost their mind? To dash so abruptly without the word into the darkness.

Khaled doesn't seem to be very interested in Ornstein’s speech, for his eyes elsewhere. Lion’s gaze follows it, and,  _ there is something shining there _ .

-So now thou have noticed too?- Smugly teases Khaled, putting his hands across his chest.

-Next time, at least  _ warn _ me.- Ornstein gives the Undead the glance, -Let’s see what it is.

As they come closer, Ornstein, even if he wants to,  _ does not _ believe his eyes. There it is - a small stone, radiating light and warmth, laying on the ground. He can actually see even more laying further to both right and left which means that  _ Artorias _ was here before, and, in the end, the Chasm was a maze, where all the paths would collide into one. What he does find strange - is that further to the right there are actually  _ three _ of prism stones, laying close to the wall. Khaled seems to notice it as well, for he walks over there, eyeing the said wall.

-Think it might be an illusion?- Wonders Ornstein, stopping near.

-The death or a treasure awaits behind - now that is a question.

-Can’t tell until we see.- Concludes Ornstein, pocking the wall with his spear. The illusion melts away, revealing another hidden path. Why  _ everything _ in here has to be hidden?

What they both see there, however, shock one and makes the other one rush into battle.

There, surrounded by what looks like a giant and  _ mad _ humanity, is a  _ wolf _ , laying atop a shield. Even if the Wolf is protected by some magical barrier of the unknown  _ (at least for Khaled) _ origin, he is still surrounded by these mad and  _ hostile creatures _ . Swipes of Khaled’s sword are enough to kill little ones and send bigger ones back a bit. Soon, as Ornstein finally unfreezes from his spot, they finish off the rest and quite fast - Ornstein hits swiftly, and pushes the spirits far away, while Khaled works with the main mass - luckily, they are not that smart and just walk right  _ unto his blade _ . The Wolf seems to recognize Ornstein, as he raises his voice, barking a few times and then actually standing from his place. There are only two of them left, and so the beast jumps out of his barrier, loudly barking, and then leashing onto humanity, his jaws coming trough, yet still damaging, for the spirit fades away. The last one is finished by the strike of lightning.

Khaled lets out a breath, looking at the place where the wolf was laying. He walks there, watching, how the barrier fades. There is  _ indeed a shield _ the Wolf was laying at,  _ heavily  _ damaged, yet… The Undead lifts it, recognizing the tracery and ornaments on it. So if this is Artorias’ shield then this Wolf is…

-Sif, stop!- Tries to calm the active pup Ornstein. The pup actually managed to get him down and now was happily licking his face, and the whole picture looked  _ very adorable _ . Such a serious and dreadful Knight-Commander, Captain of the Four Knights of Gwyn, now was absolutely helpless in front of the  _ happy licks from the wolf _ .

-Sif,- Tries the Lion, pushing the furball away, -Sit!- he commands, eyes narrowed. The wolf pup stops at last, settling himself on the cold ground, barking, as if showing his discontent with the order. Ornstein, in one swift and  _ elegant (surprisingly for Khaled)  _ motion, returns back on his two. The Lion seems to ponder over something for a few moments, before patting the wolf’s head. -I’m glad to see you too, buddy.   
  
Sif barks with glee in return, tail wagging and repeatedly hitting against the ground in the process.

-So now what do we do now?- Wonders Khaled, moving towards Ornstein with the huge  _ (and heavy as hell!)  _ shield. The Undead can swear it is heavier than his Sword and Shield, along with everything he wears. Ornstein freezes in place, as his eyes catch the sight of the shield in the hands of the Undead. He reaches for it on mere instincts.

-Allow me.

Khaled passes it without another word. He can swear that even the Wolf’s Knight sword was lighter than his shield, that  _ completely  _ hid Khaled behind. Or,  _ almost _ completely, due to cracks and holes in it. Ornstein lays his spear on the ground, moving shield closer, fingers traveling on its surface, carefully moving around all of the cracks, breath stuck in his throat. Just with  _ what _ he was fighting, that  _ damaged _ his shield so hard? And he…  _ Idiot, idiot, how could have you allowed him to return here?! _

The Lion closes his eyes for a bit, takes a deep breath and slowly lets it out. Then he puts the shield behind his back, picks spear from the ground, and starts to make his way out, whistling quickly once - Sif immediately raises from his place, catching with Captain, walking at his side. Khaled follows close after.

-We will meet with them and then find our way to Manus.


	11. Seperated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof, took me much longer than I thought. I thank everyone for their waiting, I appreciate you sticking by.
> 
> Special thanks goes to my beta - Praelia. No words can express how grateful I am for what you are doing and how your work helps both me and readers.
> 
> Enjoy the chapter!

_Trapped_.

Artorias flounces from one direction into another, not knowing where to go. The voice speaks no more, there is no light in this place and _everything_ looks just _the same_ \- even the walls seem to have _absolutely_ the same shape. It starts to drive him crazy when, yet again rushing to his right, he meets the _cold stone_ after some time.

Was he choosing the same direction all along? Was it The Abyss playing with his head?

When once again The Wolf Knight faces the wall, in ravenous hatred that makes his blood _boil,_ he _crashes_ his massive blade against it. With loud cracking and clashing of steel, the stone collides with iron as the massive weapon _tears_ through it with inhuman force, collapsing onto the ground.

**_Such strength you hold inside._ **

The man clenches his teeth, right hand tearing into his hood, violently tugging at it. He is tired of that voice, _voices_ , that sound like one - they awake _both_ his rage and fear, _clouding_ his mind, not allowing him to think straight. He needs to concentrate and find a way, if not to Sif, than to Ciaran at least. _Idiot_ , he scoffs to himself, _running away like that? Where is your brain?_

**_There is nothing to hold you back - yet, you put it all to waste._ **

**-Shut it!-** He shouts, rage once again tying a blindfold behind his head, **-Shut! Up!** -, he shouts into darkness again, salvia flying out of The Wolf’s mouth, his blood pulsing in his temples and jaw _hurting_ from how much he clenches his teeth. He swings his sword wide as if trying to send the dark away with it.

**_We will find a better use for it._ **

Artorias looks around, noticing how white eyes start to pop up in the distance. Two, four, _eight, sixteen? Just how many are there?_ Artorias grips the handle of his sword more firmly, getting into the stance, moving his sword to his side, closer, upper lips twitching, revealing teeth. There are too many of them - yet, still injured, he will face them, _no matter what._

The first one leaps from the dark, its long blades aiming at Artorias, loud screeching, that sounds as if someone took a fiddlestick and dragged it along the edge of a metal sheet, cuts through the heavy silence, clacking coming along. Artorias deflects the creature, as it falls somewhere to the side - and then _dozens_ of others collapse onto him like a tidal wave, their soft blue wings now as sharp and unbreakable as his own blade. They swirl around him, attacking not one by one, but _all at once_ , each using a unique motion - some of them pressuring him by using their steel wings for a furious squall of none stopping hits, some trying to sneak behind his back, others creating absolutely heinous sounds that _actually disorient him,_ not allowing him to land hits properly. Clashing of steel, sounds of tearing and ripping flesh, cries of anguish and pure misery, Artorias’ own grunts and hissing - it all mixes into a symphony of a battle _to the death._

They are fast, they know when to retreat and there are _so many_ \- even if he killed at least five now. Their blades are sharp and with time, Artorias notices that they _realized_ that they cannot break through the metal of his armor - they start to aim at his _head_ and _legs._ They _learned_ when he killed two of their kind by reflecting their blades with his blade’s base and then piercing, cutting their stomachs wide open - now they aim at the end of his blade, trying to shake the man off balance. They are not like bloatheads - _they are something new._

_Much more dangerous._

The additional weight of the shield feels odd and uncomfortable - that damned thing weighs the same as his _chest piece_ if _not more_ . It was okay with Artorias - he wields lighter armor with a _devastating Greatsword and Greatshield,_ while Ornstein could allow himself to wear something heavier due to his weapon of choice _(even if there was just a little difference between it and Artorias’ sword)._ Now, however, moving around will be a little more troublesome.

Sif walks closely alongside him, his head constantly turning from side to side as if waiting for something. _Anything._ The Knight-Commander must admit it was _too_ quiet for their own good. Khaled seems to be distant - his head holds still in one place, the grip is loose. The Undead is either pondering over something or listening to a _complete lack of sounds,_ aside from the ones _they_ make. His hand then, suddenly, falls atop his chest, clenching the fabric of his clothes so tightly that he can hear it _ripping_ under, as the Undead’s knees start to give in.

-Something is _wrong_ ,- He whispers, and Sif is there to offer her side as support, - _Terribly wrong._ Can’t thou feel’st it?- his voice is unstable, with hints of fear flickering in it, as he once again rises, the wolf pup close, providing additional help to stand. Ornstein spares the warrior a glance, before mirroring the warrior’s action with a hand - who knows, _maybe it is the case_ , yet… there is _nothing_.

-I don’t know what it is that thou feel’st right now, for I do not share it.

Khaled only scoffs in return, voice shaking: -Maybe it’s because I am a human? Or, saying things right, _a cursed one?_ It is called a _dark_ sigil not for nothing now, is it?

-What exactly do you feel?- Ornstein stops at once, kneeling before the Undead so that they are at the same eye level. Sif whines loudly as if agreeing with his friend, tail kept low, wagging lazily.

Khaled shakes his head, breathing slow and deep: _-Pain._ And _rage…?_ I am not sure about the last one… _My soul…_ It trembles.

Ornstein snorts, rising to his feet. Sif’s eyes follow him, as the young wolf waits for the human. Khaled rises at last, and the wolf still remains at his side, providing additional support. The Lion glares into the Darkness waiting for them further, voicing his assumption: -As much as I know thy _human_ souls came from one - the _Dark one._ If it’s true, then it is possible that thy soul… _responds_ to the Abyss. Or feels it--- I have no idea.-

-Neither do I,- confesses Khaled, adjusting his grip, -But we don’t have time to play a guessing game---

The rest of the sentence stuck in his throat for his ears catch a weak echoing name, that fell from a woman’s lips. Sif’s ears jerk up, turning to the sound, Ornstein even holds his breath to make sure they _did_ hear it.

Once again a weak calling sounds from afar, brought by the echo.

_-Thy feeling was right._

They scream and they attack - Artorias is covered in their blood, so many bodies now cold laying on the ground, their eyes went black and wings turned so dark that the Wolf Knight could no longer see them in the surrounding darkness. He killed so many - yet their number seemed to only grow: with each one killed _three_ more would come.

He could no longer _fight_ \- all he was doing now is raising his Greatsword against their blades; with a loud clashing their smaller ones reflected and some even _broke_ , sending the creature into agony. Their wings turned out to be quite dangerous as well - the edges could turn into steel that is almost as sharp as Ciaran’s blades - creatures crashed them into him with dreadful force, not allowing him to relax even for a second. Soon, he found himself moving backward, his left arm aching and a gash on his chest burning - they were tiring him and, considering his state, he would not be able to stand for too long now.

The Wolf Knight shouts in rage, something _terrible_ calling from within his chest.

**_Allow us._ **

In the next moment, he feels two long and sharp blades piercing right between the massive metal plates that protect his back and arms. Even if they do not get too deep it still hurts like hell, as the Knight bends over the slim creature’s wings wrap around him, turning steel in the next moment, forming something of a limiter around him. He cannot move, only face what will happen next - Artorias expects pain or _death_ , yet all that comes is a feeling of _disgust_ as the thing opens its maw, releasing two long and thin tentacles of white color, that actually radiated _light._ He doesn’t get to look at them for too long, as they slip past his hood, right into the _ears,_ going deeper. It sends shivers down his spine, and there is strange flashing in his eyes, the feeling of dizziness entering his head. Whatever it was it doesn’t last for long; after a few seconds the tentacles leave his head and the creature releases him at once, disappearing into the surrounding Darkness. He tries to keep himself in place, but everything around spins and he can feel the ground under his feet moving---

_Spear._

A so familiar spear pins the creature that was about to jump onto the vulnerable Knight to the wall behind him. It lets out a cry of anguish, the cracking of bones clearly heard in the sudden silence. It growls back at the one who hit it, twists, trying to break free, before going completely still. The Knight’s eyes observe it for some time, before finally raising his eyes to his savior. And he was never happier to see _a familiar face._

_-Ornstein,-_ he breathes out, knees giving in, -my friend…

Before his knees hit the ground strong arms pull him closer.

-I’ve got you,- sounds so softly near his ear that grey eyes slide shut on their own, _-I will get you out._

-What is it that thou mean’st by “he just _ran off”?!_

Ornstein is not just angry, he is furious. Partly at Ciaran, but mostly - at himself for allowing it to happen in the first place, for allowing Artorias here in such state, for not just tying him to the horse along with Ciaran and sending both to Anor Londo at once, for not going with him at least! And now he is Gods knows where in this doomed place!

-I tried to stop him,- explains Ciaran, -But he acted as if he was deaf or I did not exist. Artorias only murmured something to himself, and then he… I lost him. I can't even assume where he had left to.

Ornstein rubs his face, sounds of deep distress stuck in his throat. What is he to do now? Artorias could be anywhere and in any state - perhaps even…

_No._

Artorias _must_ be alive. He is a strong and skilled warrior. He fought with **_it_ **before, he is more than capable of dealing with it now. Or at least… Until they will find him.

-Lead us to where thou saw'st him the last time.- The Lion Knight commands the woman, as Ciaran nods, turning one hundred eighty degrees and heads up the path she followed before. Sif, with a loud bark, follows after.

And so all three of them miss the moment when Khaled turns in a completely different direction, his attention taken by the strange and inhumanly powerful feeling formed inside his chest. As if something--- _no, some_ **_one_ ** was calling for him, drawing him closer.

He follows almost blindly now - there is no light in here, he can barely see anything further than his own nose and the only sounds that reach his ears are the ones he makes.

-The place where we separated must not be that far - the prism stones, however, strangely were seen no more and---  
  
Loud wolf’s whining and barking are what hides her voice as Sif starts to circle around the Assassin, trying to grab her attention and… turn her around? Ornstein only scoffs at the pup: “Sif, get yourself together! We don’t have time for this!”, but the Wolf only growls at him, teeth taking hold of Lion’s spear, tugging at it.

-What is wrong with you?!- Shouts Ornstein, breaking his weapon away from the wolf’s maw. Sif growls in return, before barking again, bumping his head against the Knight’s leg, trying to turn him the other way.  
  
-Where is Khaled?- Suddenly voices Ciaran after taking a good look around them. The man from the future was nowhere in sight. Ornstein now takes a look around as well, as Sif cries out once again as if pronouncing his “Finally! Took a notice at last!”.

-Oh, for the Flame's sake!- Rages Ornstein, -Thou just had to run off on thine own--- Ciaran, take Sif and get that bloody idiot. I'll look for Artorias.- He orders, while actually _storming_ into the direction the Lord's Blade was speaking about earlier. The said Blade wants to retort, yet, _it is her Captain after all,_ and so she turns backward, Sif running in front, _leading_ her right after the Undead. Golden eyes follow them until both of the silhouettes disappear out of his sight, as their owner dashes forward, voice cutting through the silence like thunder in the sky, echoes through the place, calling out for a lost comrade.

**_I am calling for you. Hear me. Come to me._ **

And so Khaled follows, not caring for how far he goes, for how he no longer sees nor hears The Lion Knight nor the Lord's Blade. He follows where the voice leads him to with no doubt, for The Undead is _certain_ that he heard it before. Like a call from the distant past, it awakens blurred memories, kept out of his reach deep within, bringing them up to the surface. A voice is so familiar, yet unrecognizable.

**_Just a little bit closer, my child._ **

He cannot fight the urge to find its owner. The urge is so strong that he doesn't notice that he reached the edge and only one step separated him from a painful, yet quick death, nor does he notice the loud woman's voice and barking of a wolf pup. As if under a strong spell or hypnosis, The Undead almost takes that one step, but death welcomes him with open arms not - young Sif, fast on his paws, bites on the warrior’s long scarlet robe, pulling him with _not wolf’s_ force away from the edge, as well as from the influence of that sweet, charming voice.

Khaled falls on his back from such a sudden shift in his balance, sword clashing against the Grass Crest Shield. His savior barks loudly, tugging at his sleeve with bared teeth, trying to move the cursed human even further away. Khaled’s vision seems to finally clear, as he shakes his head a few times, trying to focus. He hears much lighter steps rushing to his side and a voice, filled with maybe _a bit_ of concern, but mostly with _anger._

-With what art thou thinking?- She wonders, voice stern, -If not for Sif, thou would be greeted by Nito by now!

Sif whines in agreement with the woman, casting a look of ‘I’m not mad, just disappointed’ at the Undead. Khaled grumbles in return, rising to his feet: -I… I don’t know. It just _called_ and I found no strength to resist---  
  
Ciaran interrupts him: -Wait, what doth thou mean by _it?_

Khaled looks at the Lord’s Blade as if she said the stupidest thing in the world before explaining, -A voice. Thou hast not heard it?

-A voice? Khaled, there was complete silence and I certainly did not hear any kind of voice that almost led thee to thy doom.  
  
The man only snorts in return, dusting his skirt off: -It’s not like I wouldn’t return _anyway._

-What art thou speak’est about?

Ciaran doesn’t manage to continue on her interrogation, nor does Khaled explain himself properly, as the whole place - around and under them - _shakes_ with a _dreadful_ force, dust and small rocks falling from above, a sound too close to a _roar_ echoing around. Khaled covers himself with his shield, raising it in mere seconds, as pebbles hit against it with a loud clinking, the Lord’s Blade covers her head with an arm.

_-’Twas a collapse.-_ both of them say out loud almost at the same time, as soon as the shaking calms a bit and nothing falls on to them any longer. Sif whines too as if trying to give his warning. Ciaran looks around, trying to find anything that she can at least assume was the source of something like that.

-We need to catch up with Captain Ornstein. Let us go.- _commands_ the Lord’s Blade, leading the Warrior and a slightly _frightened_ wolf pup.

Ornstein _felt_ that something like this might happen.  
  
Just a minute ago he was wandering around in the dark, calling out for Artorias - now he was laying at Gods know which _depth,_ alongside with what once was the “floor” he was walking on with his right left arm aching terribly, and both feet refusing to let him stand for some good thirty seconds. He hasn’t broken any of his bones, which was a good thing - he can surely continue with some scratches and bruises, but with a broken limb, even though The Lion Knight could heal it with his miracles, his chances to prevail would drop and drop _low._

Taking another thirty seconds to fully regain control over his body, he starts to rise, armor clashing loudly with each of his movements. Just how long was he falling? Oh, _whatever._ He needs to find his way back up and keep on searching for Artorias. _He must---_

Low growling and some sort of _clicking_ come from in front. The sound is distant, yet terrifying. _Whatever_ it is The Dragonslayer is sure that it will not be any good. Even if he faced the colossal ancient beast that ruled the grey land, surrounded with ashes and fog with no fear, he felt dread creeping down his spine, bringing shivers along. Creatures of the Dark were nothing like the Archdragons - not to mention the fact that Ornstein lost most of his proficiency _(his only chances to remember how to properly use his spear was sparring matches with Artorias, that most of the time ended with a draw)._

No matter. Ornstein is a trained Knight - the taste of fear may have been no longer present in his life, yet it was not forgotten by the Lion. He handled it before - and must now. Dusting off his arms and chest, he feels small roughness and dents - some are old, some new, from the fall.

The roar repeats, echoing off the walls, making everything _inside shake._ The sound itself… was as if whatever was the source of that sound was _in pain._

Ornstein follows the sound into the dark, determination burning in eyes as golden as the very armor he wears. And the further he descends into the Dark the louder it gets. His ears can catch additional sounds - some grunting, and _screeching_ as well as… _metal clashing?_

_Could this be?_

He runs, following the sound, and with every step the sounds rise and there is _a so familiar_ voice popping out of the cacophony of different roars and clashing.

**_-How could you?!_ **

A voice of someone in trouble.

The Dragonslayer rushes into a rather large arena lit by some prism stones and a strange dim light, along with something of a pitch black smoke from the large cracks around it. Around thirty meters away he notices _two_ silhouettes that have humanoid shapes and dozens of… _just what in the name of Lord Gwyn are those?_

**_-Teamed up with the Abyss?! I trusted you!-_ ** , rages the voice as its owner throws one of these creatures to Ornstein’s side. With _who_ is Artorias _(and he was sure it was The Wolf Knight since he recognized the sword and even the voice that’s been changed for a reason unknown)_ speaking? Someone he trusted… Someone from Oolacile?

With no further hesitation, Ornstein bursts into the thick of the battle, a lighting bolt forming in his right hand. He manages to get through the masses of monsters, breaking their numbers and tearing cries of pain out of their maws with his lightning, and he stops at the side of his comrade, boots raising a small cloud of dust. But once he faces the ‘traitor’, the Lion can swear he _froze_ to the ground.

_For the Dragonslayer faced himself._

**-You!-** It shouts, looming forward, taking _his stance_ , **-You shouldn't be here!**

The Abyss created _his copy._ Not just a copy, but a copy holding _his_ weapon, talking with _his_ voice, _being him._

**_-What?! Another one?!-_ ** Artorias said, perplexed, taking two steps back from his _Captains_ , **_-Just what in the name of Lord Gwyn is going on?!_ **

Ornstein wanted to ask the exact same question.

-Artorias, calm down, - starts Ornstein, _unsure_ himself about what the hell is going on, but the Wolf Knight, who appears to be not in the best mental state, interrupts him, salvia flying out of his mouth as he raises his sword.

**_-NO!-_ ** he shouts, the tip of the blade drifting left and right as the bearer of the sword is not sure if he can trust even _one_ of them, **_-You two stay away from me!-_ **

And so here they are: two Ornsteins, an injured and raging Artorias, all three being surrounded by things, none knowing what are they capable of or how many there are.  


-This place is doomed.- Scoffs Ciaran under her breath, as all three of them rush through the dark. First she lost Artorias, then Khaled almost fell into the pitch black nothingness, now they couldn’t find Ornstein and then _The Collapse_ happened. She can only pray that most of the mass from the Collapse didn’t smash any of her comrades and they aren’t lying under an avalanche of rock with internal bleeding and several broken bones if not _dead._

And now, like a cherry on top of a cake, they seem to be walking _in circles._

As if the Chasm had its own mind and was a _living_ thing and was actually… _moving._ As if all of them separating was not just a consequence of such suspicious circumstances but… was precisely _rigged b_ y the damn _Abyss_ itself.

That damn thing just sent them on _a wild-goose chase._

-It’s no surprise thou are so worried about thy friends.- Starts Khaled, taking a look around, -This place is just plays with us, I am telling thee.  
  
_Movement._

Sif growls, glaring from side to side. Khaled notices it too - _they are being surrounded._

-In a circle! We're about to get busy here.- Commands Ciaran, as all three of them slow down, backs turned to each other. Khaled bares his swords, ready to work on numbers, Ciaran takes out her blades, eyes jumping from one silhouette into another, Sif bares his teeth, ready to tear into the enemy. There are so many - way _too many_ \- and all of them can tell.

-Can the saying “A true warrior knows when to retreat” be applied to this situation?

-I didn’t think thou were such a coward.- mocks Ciaran, eyes incapable to focus on one thing: there are just too many of the creatures.

-I am not- The Undead protests a bit childishly. The swarm of the Abyss creatures that are not engaging them is starting to play on his nerves like on an old violin, -I cannot die _anyway_.

Here he goes again with this--- _Shit!_

And at last, they start to attack. The same creatures that _pretended_ to be Artorias - and _almost_ fooled her - along with the bloatheads. No sorcerers, which is good - trying to dodge both blades and fists along with dark magick would be… a terrible and impossible thing to do.  
  
Khaled works with the masses, getting most of their attention by throwing a firebomb _(in the Name of The First Flame where does he keep them?)._ They leap onto him, yet his moves are quick as he cuts their bellies open and puts his blade right through the Bloatheads’ heads. While Bloatheads are too stubborn to die, the slim creatures with blades are much easier to take out. The Lord’s Blade works with single ones - covering Khaled’s back and immediately engaging with the ones that step out of the main crowd. Sif attacks every one on sight - from saving both the assassin and the man from the future, to simply finishing the ones that are bleeding on the ground. His teeth are just as sharp as Ciaran's Tracers and the Black Knight's Greatsword that Khaled possesses.

They all manage quite well, even if Khaled seems to be tiring _(and no wonder - waving his sword around like this)_ and Sif no longer attacks with the aggression that he held inside before, as well as Ciaran, who no longer fought with her blood boiling. Many fell, and their number is decreasing as more and more limp bodies, some of them still warm, fall to the ground.

At some point, Ciaran tries to reflect the blade one of those _“imitators”_ was aiming for her throat when at the same time a Bloathead decides to smash her into the ground. And she manages to dodge, sending the creature directly under the dreadfully strong arms of the mutant instead. All of them hear its scream tearing through the air, sending shivers down the assassin’s and Undead’s backs, Sif whines at the sound as if the scream of agony can be heard over the _cracking_ of bones and squishing of inner organs is worse. _Gods,_ if she hadn’t dodged that Ciaran would certainly be _dead._

-Behind you!- suddenly shouts Khaled, bringing another Bloathead down, blade smoothly piercing through. The Lord’s Blade dodges another Imitator _(let them have this name)_ just in time, as the sharp wing whistles mere millimeters away from her mask. This opens the creature for her immediate critical hit, as the Gold Tracer leaves a deep wound in its belly and blood starts to flow from it. The Imitator doesn’t live for long after - it loses blood too fast, and, after a good five seconds, it falls to the ground, Sif quick to end its suffering.

And then there is the _same_ sound that they heard before - when the _collapse_ happened somewhere in the chasm. The ground still shakes, tho not as violently as before and no rocks are about to fall onto their heads. Whatever the thing that created that sound is ,it terrifies the other creatures. The imitators started to retreat the same moment they heard the sound, Bloatheads, as it seems, following after them, noticing how quickly they fled. Was it another thing from the Abyss? Was it completely new or _evolved_ out of the common creatures?  
  
Judging by how the sound grew louder, _they are about to find out._

-Dost thou not think’st we should follow their lead, Lord’s Blade?- Tries Khaled again, gulping on estus between sentences, -Whatever the hell it is that they’ve fled from, it certainly will not allow us to pet its head and scratch its belly.

-Set that notion aside!- Ciaran _orders_ , shaking the still fresh blood off her Tracers, -It’s even better that this thing is on _us_ and not them!

Sif whines, in disagreement, as Khaled shakes his head, _smirk_ heard in his voice, _-Size doesn’t matter,_ isn’t it?

_-The bigger it is the easier it will be to get under its stomach.-_ Continues Ciaran, taking her stance.

There it is - they can spot a spikey silhouette in the distance. Sif’s head jerks towards the monster's direction, low growling rising from within his throat. They cannot tell much about it - aside from the fact that it is _huge._ Bigger than any creature they’ve yet encountered. And now it was silent _for some reason._

-It’s up to something.- warns Khaled, noting how it starts to circle around them. There are no eyes glowing, no crystal-like wings flickering. Just the clattering of long _claws_ against the ground.

And then it _moves_ as fast as lightning itself - not _leaping_ , but _dashing_ at them, its arms open. Khaled sees its features - it looked akin to _whatever these creatures were called_ , aside from it being larger, it had mandibles and _actual arms_ with _huge_ shotel-like claws. And it was about to _pierce_ them through the Lord’s Blade.

Khaled does the only thing that comes to his mind.

He pushes the woman aside, feeling how pain shouts through his body, and he sees _claws_ sticking out of his shoulders and chest, yet he is still _alive._

And then it dashes back into the dark, along with a soon to be dead - again - Khaled, just as fast as it appeared. Was this its plan? To _abduct_ one of them?

The last thing he hears is Ciaran calling out his name in shock and Sif howling along with her before there is nothing but _Darkness around._


End file.
